


The Art of Self-Destruction

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Ficlet Series, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mind Games, Stockholm Syndrome, mild sexual harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 28,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron sees an opportunity. Megatron takes an opportunity. Optimus searches for a way out. But the enemy gate is Down. It might be the only option he has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prime Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dellessa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dellessa/gifts).



> This was originally posted as ficlets in my Database in Transmission collection, but I have the sneaking suspicion that this series is going to grow a life of its own. So here we are. A new, tentative story that will be updated as the ideas come because I have no idea where it's going. Enjoy the ride. 
> 
> Every single ficlet so far has been prompted by Dellessa on my livejournal so all props to her. 
> 
> Also, "the enemy gate is Down" is a reference to Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, for anyone who didn't recognize it. :)

"You see, little Prime, herein lies my problem."

Megatron does not miss the way the Autobot twitches at the adjective. The way those Autobot-blue optics narrow and Prime makes another aborted attempt to free himself from his bonds.

Megatron's lips curl with amusement. He folds his arms behind his back and paces back and forth in front of his recently acquired captive. Quite a feat of both Blitzwing and Lugnut working together. He shall have to reward them later.

"I have you," Megatron says. "Now what to do with you?"

He pauses, angling his frame just so, the flood light above catching his fusion cannon with an intimidating glint. Just to remind the Autobot of its presence of course.

"I could kill you. Mm, yes. Won't that be fun?" Megatron continues with another intimidating flash of his fusion cannon. "But I suspect you are of more worth to me alive. More entertaining as well."

The Prime glares, hydraulics hissing, frame visibly straining at his bonds. But the stasis cuffs work in Megatron's favor, keeping the Autobot quiet and immobile. The glare is, at worst, as frightening as a turbofox kit.

"Glorious Megatron," Lugnut rumbles, rubbing his massive paws together. "What are you going to do with the Autobot?"

Megatron twitches. Is that not the very question he'd pondered aloud? You just can't find good help these days.

Still. He will have to do something. No doubt the Prime's pathetic team will come looking for their missing leader. Autobots have a tendency to attempt to rescue their own. Well, the halfway decent ones anyway. The less said of the Magnus and those in the upper echelon the better.

"We'll keep him," Megatron announces, smirking as the Prime makes a noise of protest, a growl in his engine that rumbles in the air. "For now."

Blitzwing's Random gives off a maniacal cackle. "For educational use only. Batteries not included!"

Megatron rolls his optics. "Lugnut! Escort our new prisoner to more fitting accommodations."

He watches as Lugnut drags the Autobot up by his arms, pulling at the cuffs, dragging Prime's arms at an unnatural angle. He can hear the servo-motors in Prime's shoulders whine their distress, but Prime bears the pain with a furious dignity. An admirable dignity actually.

How intriguing. Perhaps there is more bite to this little Prime than Megatron first suspected. He would be a great addition to the Decepticon cause. While young compared to Megatron, he has useful battle skills and the fact he is attractive is a point in the little Prime's favor.

Once upon a time, Megatron had been quite charismatic. It isn't a stretch to think he still carries those skills.

Forcing the Prime to join the Decepticons is not appealing. Convincing the Prime, however, is quite intriguing indeed. Seduction, while not Megatron's forte, is far more likely to succeed than force, which Megatron disdains anyway.

His engine gives a rev of interest.

Yes. This idea will do nicely.

***


	2. Inescapable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus ponders his chances; Megatron gives no leeway.

He doesn't know what vile plan Megatron has concocted. Optimus doesn't want to know. The infamous Decepticon warlord is the mech nightmares are constructed from.   
  
There is only one thing Optimus is contemplating.   
  
Escape.   
  
Rescue is also an option he'll accept. Though as time passes, it becomes less likely. He is certain Ratchet and the others are trying. But there is hope, reality, and the thin line between and Optimus knows he's walking a very fine line.   
  
His prison, however, is one in name only. It is a small room, but furnished with a berth, a locked energon dispenser, and a table. It is not a brig by any definition. His wrists are still shackled by the stasis cuffs.   
  
His chronometer counts the minutes. Then hours. Then days.   
  
A drone stops by like clockwork, activating the dispenser long enough to retrieve Optimus a cube before it departs again. He has no other visitors.   
  
Optimus can't move. He's certain the door is locked and coded. Even if he were to somehow break free, he's outnumbered, weapon-less and unfamiliar with his surroundings.   
  
He is, as Bumblebee would put it when he thinks Optimus isn't paying attention, fragged.   
  
The door slides open.   
  
Optimus, startled, swings his helm toward it. The drone had been here minutes before. Which means he has a visitor. Though one can hardly call the powerful Decepticon leader a mere visitor.   
  
“Hello, little Prime,” Megatron says, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind him. That he's alone proves that he's either an idiot, or someone so confident in his own skills that he doesn't need a bodyguard. “Enjoying the accommodations?”   
  
Optimus cycles through several potential responses, grinding his denta with disdain. “There is little to be had in the way of entertainment.”   
  
Megatron smirks, clasping his hands behind his back. “That could change. It would be a shame to keep you prisoner. Not when you can be much, much more.”   
  
Why does that sound more like a threat than an offer? And if Megatron thinks Optimus is going to join the Decepticons, then he's clearly more deluded than Optimus ever gave him credit.   
  
“No, thank you,” Optimus says through a clenched jaw. “And now that's settled, you can let me go.”   
  
Amusement dances in Megatron's optics. He crouches in front of Optimus, tilting his helm to the side. “Not quite. We have much to talk about, you and I, and as long as you are here, I have an audience, however unwilling you may be. To start.”   
  
Optimus narrows his optics. “I have no interest in anything you have to say.”   
  
“Then allow me to offer you a deal.” Megatron reaches for Optimus, one hand tapping his chestplate. “Listen to me without argument. And when I am finished, I will let you leave, provided you still wish to.” His fingers drop to Optimus' wrists, one hand touching the stasis cuffs and causing the ready light to shift to yellow – half power. “Deal?”   
  
Optimus eyes the door behind Megatron. He has only to bide his time, wait for an opportunity. Prowl has always stressed the value of patience. It's past time that Optimus listened to him.   
  
“Deal,” he agrees.

***


	3. Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would have Prime, and after that, Cybertron. It is only a matter of time.

Megatron did not become the leader of the Decepticons because he was an idiot and a fool. The Autobots may think this of him, but it is not true. So he is quite aware of every opportunity the Prime takes to try and send out a distress call.   
  
It is cute and a little amusing, how the little Prime hacks into the system, bypasses the obvious tracing log, and sends out his signal. He wouldn't know that it is being re-routed to Megatron's personal console, read and then discarded. He only holds to the hope that some passing Autobot would pick up on the call for aid and respond accordingly.   
  
He isquite naïve for a Prime, Megatron muses. To think that the Autobots would actually care that one of their own ismissing when the Prime had been gone for more than a stellar cycle. His own team would probably never cease searching, but none of them had rank or influence.  
  
Optimus Prime will soon be listed as killed-in-action, if he isn't already. Hmm. Something to consider. Megatron will put that forth to Shockwave at their next scheduled contact.   
  
“Glorious leader,” Lugnut rumbles, nearly genuflecting. “The Autobot must be punished! He is spitting on your generosity.”   
  
Megatron's lips curl upward. “All in due time, Lugnut. Allow him to have his hope. It will make it all the more crushing when he realizes there is none.”   
  
Lugnut blinks his primary and secondary optics, a trace of confusion echoing in his gaze before he bows, quite a feat for an unlimber mech. “As his lordship commands.”   
  
Megatron smirks, dismisses Lugnut, and taps his console, bringing up the surveillance on his Autobot once again. Prime is roaming the halls of the vessel, keeping to the unrestricted areas as he'd been bid. He luxuriates in his freedom, perhaps aware perhaps not, that he is always being watched. If not by camera, than by one of many smaller spies that Megatron keeps in his employ.   
  
In this, Soundwave has become quite useful. Megatron is glad that he'd found and repaired the Allspark-built mech not long before acquiring Prime as his captive.   
  
One day he might return to Earth, if only to see what new and strange allies he might acquire. Because if Prime turns out to be halfway useful, perhaps the rest of his teammates might prove to be as well.   
  
Megatron zooms in on the Prime. He usually does not take much notice in Autobot designs, but there is something of interest to the Prime's utilitarian take. His narrow waist and long legs, capped off with broad shoulders. The colors could do with a change, red and white not at all attractive. Megatron imagines him in shades of black, grey and dark purple. The idea is far more appealing.  
  
Perhaps once Prime is convinced to join the Decepticons, Megatron could convince him to a repaint as well. The idea has merit.   
  
Megatron smiles, leans back in his chair, and continues to watch the Prime. The plan taking shape in the back of his processor proves more and more possible.   
  
He would have Prime. And after that, Cybertron.   
  
It is only a matter of time.

***


	4. The Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus can't play the game if he doesn't know the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by dellessa's livejournal prompt of Megatron/Optimus, TFA, confusion

A drone delivers the invitation with his daily energon.   
  
Optimus turns the simply-phrased request over and over in his hands. He isn't sure he can safely decline. He isn't sure he should.   
  
What game is Megatron playing now? Surely he doesn't think Optimus will fall for this ruse?  
  
His chronometer ticks closer to the appointed time. Optimus sits in the silence of his unbarred prison and debates. The decision is one of the few freedoms he has.   
  
To earn more, he must first gain Megatron's trust. But not even Megatron will buy a quick concession. And Optimus has never been the best at subterfuge.   
  
His desire to escape Megatron and the Decepticons is no secret.   
  
His functioning rests entirely on maintaining the Decepticon Lord's interest. Except that Optimus doesn't know how he acquired it in the first place.   
  
He paces back and forth. He wishes for Ratchet's pragmatism and Prowl's logic and Bee's daring and Bulkhead's resolve. Right now, he could even use Sari's advice and non-linear thinking.   
  
Optimus pauses and bows his helm.   
  
His internal alarm chimes a warning. He suspects Megatron doesn't tolerate tardiness no matter how polite the invitation.   
  
He can't play the game if he doesn't know the rules.   
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation. He supposes that makes the decision.   
  
He stands outside Megatron's private suite with time to spare. He pings for entry and the door slides open, not to invite Optimus but to discharge Slipstream. He draws up short as she offers a smirk.   
  
“Well,” she says with a flutter of her wings. “Have fun. And don't worry. I'll make sure Flatline has some red paint in stock.”   
  
She leaves before Optimus can form a rebuttal to her implication. It's enough to make him reconsider, but only long enough to realize that he's running short of options.   
  
Into the lion's den, it is.   
  
“Prime,” Megatron greets with a voice as warm as sweet energon, beckoning to Optimus from where he's seated at a table.   
  
Megatron is lounging in comfort, cannon nowhere to be seen, yet no less dangerous for it. There's a tray of assorted goodies and a decanter of rich oil. And there's a tactical game on the table, one vaguely familiar to Optimus.   
  
“I received your invitation,.” Optimus isn't sure how well he's hiding his suspicion. Maybe it doesn't matter. “What I don't know is what it means.”   
  
“All in due time.” Megatron gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”   
  
Less invitation and more command in that word. Optimus grimaces behind his battle mask but obeys. He will save the refusals for the times that matter.   
  
“I'm not joining the Decepticons.”   
  
“Of course you aren't.”  
  
His gaze flicks past Megatron to the barely visible berth in the open doorway behind the silver warlord. “I'm not a berth toy either.”   
  
“No one said you were. Oil?” Megatron offers with near-genuine affability.  
  
Who is this frighteningly pleasant Megatron? And what the frag does he want? Optimus' optics cycle down.   
  
“It's tampered.”   
  
Megatron laughs as though Optimus hasn't just insulted him. “If I wanted to do so, I would tamper your energon. You drink _that_ without suspicion.”   
  
Optimus flushes with realization. Point to Megatron. His denta grind. “Yes, thank you.”   
  
Megatron is already pouring it, however. The sweet, smooth scent of oil teases Optimus. The only worse temptation would have been high grade.   
  
“You haven't answered my question,” Optimus says.   
  
Megatron hands him the cube, their fingers purposefully brushing as Optimus accepts. “You are not asking the right ones.”   
  
“Why am I here?” He tries again.   
  
Megatron rolls his shoulders. “You accepted the invitation. Perhaps you should ask yourself why.”   
  
Optimus' optics flash as irritation sweeps through him in a burst of heat. “I'm not stupid. My functioning rests on maintaining your.... generous nature.”   
  
“Self-preservation then. I know a little something about that.” Red optics briefly dim, as though Megatron has slipped into some deep datastream before he refocuses and gestures to the board. “Do you play?”   
  
“Some. What do I get if I win?”   
  
There's a moment of silence where Megatron sips at his oil and then laughs. “It won't be that easy. But let me humor you.”   
  
There's no shame in trying.   
  
“Release me.”   
  
“No.”   
  
Aggravating, but expected. Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Then let me contact my team.”   
He expects an immediate refusal but instead, Megatron tilts his helm. “I will consider it.”  
  
Better than nothing. It's a start, an in. And Optimus is going to take as many of those as he can get. Megatron may be leader of the Decepticons, the master of deception, but Optimus has learned from the best. He's learned how to twist his words.   
  
Thank you, Sentinel.   
  
Optimus straightens, resolve firming his plating. “I'll win,” he says.   
  
Megatron smiles with a flash of denta. “We shall see.”

***


	5. Forward Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strika offers some information.

Everything is going exactly to plan. Which is a miracle considering his luck as of late.   
  
Megatron's time spent on Earth had been fraught with disappointment and disaster. And now the mech most to blame for his failures is a guest aboard his battle-station.   
  
Primus certainly has a way of arranging things. Megatron can't quite yet call it luck. And he has never ascribed to destiny.   
  
Megatron sits back in his chair, one taloned finger tapping the datapad beneath it. His optics are locked on the monitors in front of him, one blank, others displaying various important pieces of communication. Another, smaller screen shows Optimus. His pet Autobot is in the training arena, going through a series of martial kata, perhaps taught to him by the ninja.   
  
Inch by inch, shadow by shadow, his Decepticons are converging on Cybertron. They are placing themselves per Shockwave's discretion, prepared to rise at Megatron's call.   
  
If there is one thing Earth has managed to teach Megatron, it is the value of patience. He has learned to call upon it now.   
  
His communication console flashes with urgency. Ah. The call he's been waiting for.   
  
“Strika.”   
  
“Lord Megatron.” His general appears on screen, the edges distorted with static. “All is in place. We wait your instruction.”   
  
“Good. You have served me well, Strika.” He pauses, helm tilting as he considers all of the pieces that have come into play. Optimus still proves a valuable resource. “And what of the other matter?”   
  
“The Prime's team is no longer on Earth.”   
  
Interesting. Not unexpected, but interesting.   
  
“Why?”   
  
“I'm sure Shockwave can better answer that.” A hint of distaste. Shockwave and Strika have never seen optic to optic.   
  
Megatron's talon taps on the datapad again. “I'll be sure to ask him. What of the Allspark?”   
  
“We detected traces of its energy signature all over the planet. Nothing large enough to be of use.”   
  
As he feared. Megatron laments the destruction of the Allspark. It is one of many crimes for which Optimus will have to face judgement. But not yet.   
  
“We found another of Starscream's clones.” Here Strika's distaste deepens into loathing. “What do you want me to do with him?”   
  
“Is he useful?”   
  
Strika's optics flash, her humor showing through. “He will be when I'm through with him.”   
  
“Then I leave his fate to your discretion.”   
  
Her helm dips, a bow of respect. “Very well. Is there anything else I can do for you, Lord Megatron?”   
  
“No. I'll contact you when the time comes. Shockwave has your orders for entry. Be prepared.”   
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
The screen goes blank.   
  
Megatron's optics shift back to the camera monitoring Optimus' position. The little Prime is still in the midst of maneuvers. He hasn't made an attempt to reach out to the Autobots or Neutrals since their last chat.   
  
Has he given up?   
  
Megatron is not so foolish to think so. Optimus is merely biding his time. Which suits Megatron just fine. It gives him more opportunities to prove his point.   
  
The Autobots, the Magnus – all have abandoned Optimus. Though now is too soon to offer Optimus that truth. He is not yet tamed.   
  
Megatron's lipplates curl. He taps a button, wiping all of his screens of their displays, save one. He pushes himself to his pedes, attaching his datapad to his forearm, where his cannon usually stands prominent.   
  
Optimus looks in need of a challenge.   
  
How generous of Megatron to offer one.   
  


****

 


	6. Concessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron's agenda is as inscrutable as ever.

Decepticons have been wandering in and out of the training room since Optimus took up residence in the corner. He's ignored them, for the most part. He's grown used to Decepticons staring at him.   
  
Even if Blitzwing's random personality left him perpetually on edge. Lugnut had muttered some comment about him being not worthy of Lord Megatron's attention. Slipstream had sneered, but kept her comments to herself.   
  
They weren't attacking him and Optimus finds that such a change from the usual pattern, that he considers it a relief. He can handle some disdain. What he doesn't like is being surrounded by the enemy, with no one to watch his back should one of the soldiers decide a little payback is in order.   
  
Either Megatron has better control of his troops than Optimus suspected, or he's seriously underestimated the Decepticons. Neither explanation bodes well for his own state of processor.   
  
His thoughts are awhirl. Prowl's meditative techniques have proven useless. There's nothing to entertain in the tiny room that's considered his. For the first time, Optimus actually misses the noise of Bumblebee's video games. He wants to hear Ratchet grumbling from the other side of the room. He wants to hear Bulkhead and Sari laughing. And he wants to not-hear Prowl until it's far too late.   
  
Sneaky ninja.   
  
The loneliness, Optimus thinks, is the worst. He's not blind to Megatron's obvious overtures. But it's a difficult game to play.   
  
He wants to live. But whatever he must do in the name of survival might kill him by the end.   
  
On the other side of the room, the door whooshes open, announcing the arrival of another Decepticon. Optimus braces himself for the glares, the snide commentary. Who will it be this time?   
  
“Are you the best the Elite Guard has to offer?”   
  
Optimus startles, nearly losing his place in his routine. He had not expected Megatron. After all, the Lord of the Decepticons does not seek out his pets. He sends others to track his minions down.   
  
Optimus pointedly picks up his routine again and does not look at the warlord. “I was never in the Elite Guard,” he answers, a truth which stings but costs him nothing. “I washed out.”   
  
“I should be so surprised.” Megatron circles the mat, coming into Optimus' peripheral vision. “Though if Sentinel is who they consider the best, then the Autobots have lowered their standards.”   
  
Despite himself, Optimus chuckles, until he realizes that it is at Sentinel's expense and from the mouth of his mortal enemy. Pompous windbag Sentinel might be, but he is still an Autobot.   
  
Optimus gives Megatron a sideways look. “Is there something you want?”   
  
“You should know that by now, little Prime.” Megatron tips his helm, optics performing a leisurely scan of Optimus' frame as though taking stock of his strengths and weaknesses. “I've seen sparklings with greater skill.”   
  
Optimus grinds his denta. “I've beaten you before.”   
  
“With luck. And help from the Allspark.” Megatron makes a grand gesture, baring his chestplate as though in challenge. “On even ground, however, you might discover a different outcome. I have been fighting before you were even a glimmer in the Allspark's energy.”   
  
“And a murderer, too.” The accusation slips out before Optimus can remind himself that it is a poor idea to insult his host.   
  
Megatron, however, simply offers a grating laugh. “We are all of us killers, little Prime. We do what we must.”   
  
Concentration shot, Optimus gives up on his routine and fully faces the warlord. “You like making me repeat myself. Can I help you?”   
  
“It seems more that I can assist you.” Megatron moves closer to Optimus, but only to circle him slower, causing Optimus to turn to keep his optics on the warlord. “You have speed. You can think on your pedes. But your technical skills far short.”   
  
Optimus' optics cycle down. “Are you offering to train me?”   
  
“No. I'm choosing to fix you.” Megatron's lips curl in a smirk. “Unless you'd prefer to remain mediocre. It must not bother you that there is not a single Decepticon on this ship who you could best in combat.”   
  
Optimus twitches. “Why?” Because there has to be motive for Megatron wanting to improve his battle skills.   
  
Megatron clasps his hands behind his back, still moving endlessly. “Because I can.” His field creeps through the room, heavy and proud.   
  
Arrogant.   
  
Cooperate, Optimus reminds himself as he looks into Megatron's optics and fails to divine the mech's true intentions. Megatron is as inscrutable as ever. But that arrogance? It is all too familiar.   
  
Cooperate and he might just find his escape.   
  
“Fine.” Optimus says, and he lets his battlemask slide shut. “I'm willing to learn.”   
  
“Excellent,” Megatron purrs. “I'll make a Decepticon out of you yet.”   
  
Optimus grits his denta. We'll see about that.   
  


****


	7. Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron has plans. Slipstream has questions. Shockwave is obedient.

“You're training him!?”  
  
Megatron doesn't think, he reacts. That voice, that tone. He backhands the owner of the hissed accusation before he registers the identity. Even then, he doesn't feel guilty, not when a Starscream-esque face glares back at him, wiping a smear of energon from her lip.   
  
“Excuse me,” Slipstream says, keeping her pedes beneath her. “But I ask again, Lord Megatron, why on Cybertron are you training that Autobot?”   
  
Megatron curls his fingers into a fist and tucks his hands behind his back. Patience, he reminds himself. And restraint.   
  
“Because if that Autobot is to be of any use to me, I can't have him be a liability.” He lowers his helm, pinning Slipstream with his optics. Not that it ever worked on Starscream. “You would do well to remember what happens to those who question my judgment.”   
  
“I remember.” Slipstream straightens, the taut cant to her wings all to reminiscent of the coding which spawned her. “But I am not the only one curious as to what purpose you hold for Optimus Prime.”   
  
Megatron sneers and turns away from her, looking out the portscreen and into the vastness of space. “I find myself in a position where he could be useful to our cause. Not just in removing the Autobots from power, but in securing my position as a viable candidate to remove whatever Autobot-allied bots remain.”   
  
He doesn't suspect Slipstream will understand. She cannot see the larger picture.   
  
However, her field does choose that moment to speak with dread. And Megatron is again reminded that she is far more cunning than her creator could ever hope to be.   
  
“You would make an Autobot your second in command?” she demands, hands fisting at her sides, the creak of metal all too audible in the conference room.   
  
Clearly, he has underestimated her. He must take care not to make that mistake again.   
  
“No.” Megatron half-turns, reading her expression over his shoulder. “I would make Optimus my second in command. By the time he accepts my offer, he'll be an Autobot no longer.”   
  
Slipstream's plating twitches, her field flaring again before she reigns it in. “He will never join us.”   
  
“I would not be so sure.” Megatron turns back toward the window. “I can be quite persuasive when I so choose. Or don't you recall?”   
  
He hears her audibly cycle a ventilation. “There is little difference between Optimus and I.”   
  
“I am aware of that.” His console flashes, reminding him of a scheduled call. “Dismissed, Slipstream.”   
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
She snaps to attention and stalks out of the room, her posture less defeat than it is challenge. Taming her has proven to be nearly the same challenge as convincing Optimus, though not quite so entertaining. Still, she is a useful resource, one Megatron intends to continue utilizing.   
  
He returns to his console, allowing the comm to come through. “Shockwave,” Megatron says, without waiting for preamble. “Do you have the information I seek?”   
  
“Of course, Lord Megatron. You were correct. The Autobots recalled the Prime's team to Cybertron.”   
  
Megatron allows himself a fanged smirk. “And his crew?”   
  
“Disbanded.” Shockwave inclines his helm. “I have taken the liberty of acquiring Bulkhead for Astroscope's division per your instructions. The medibot has been assigned a position on the outskirts of Iacon under his former student.”   
  
“Pharma,” Megatron assumes.   
  
“Correct.” A hum of something that is almost amusement cycles in Shockwave's vocalizer. “And I have pulled a few strings to ensure that Bumblebee now serves in my division as a courier bot.”   
  
“Excellent.” Megatron's engine rumbles with satisfaction. Everything is indeed going to plan. Pity the Autobots are so predictable.   
  
… Wait.  
  
His optics narrow. “And the ninja?”   
  
Only now does Shockwave express some discomfort. “I do not know, milord. He was not aboard their vessel when it arrived though my sources assure me he did leave Earth.”   
  
Mildly troublesome.   
  
Megatron raps his talons on the desk top. “What is his current status?”  
  
“Prowl was not initially assigned to Optimus Prime's crew. He holds no official title in the Autobot cadre.” Shockwave's optic briefly flares. “I would not be alarmed. He is but one mech and I've been assured that his loyalty to Optimus Prime has always been in question.”   
  
Megatron can not be sure of this. If there is one thing he knows for certain about the little Prime, is that he has the tendency to inspire his followers in a similar matter to Megatron. Though by his soft spark rather than his strength.   
  
“Find him,” Megatron orders, his cannon cycling into a ready-state as though a subtle warning. “I will not make the mistake of underestimating any of my foes.”   
  
“As you command.” Shockwave dips his helm, antennae bobbing.   
  
“Initiate contact in another ten megacycles. I expect results, Shockwave.”   
  
Shockwave's optic glows brighter. “Yes, Lord Megatron.” The screen fills with static and then goes blank.   
  
Megatron stares at it for a moment longer. Debating. He has an option.   
  
Plans are in motion. He will not delay this time. He will see Cybertron under Decepticon rule. And he will see Ultra Magnus and the Autobot echelon where they belong. At least he is assured that Prime's team is not even a glimmer of an issue. He can handle the ninja, whether he ends up offline or in chains.   
  
Perhaps it is time to give Lockdown a call.   
  


***


	8. Bribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron offers Optimus a gift.

He tries not to flinch. It is a failed attempt.   
  
Optimus hisses a ventilation. “Don't you have some kind of sensor block?”   
  
The Decepticon medic chuckles from behind the sparks of weld-fire. “I didn't realize Autobots were so delicate.”   
  
Optimus grinds his denta, grateful to hide behind his battle mask. “And I didn't realize all Decepticons were masochists.”   
  
Flatline laughs, but it's a raspy sound that never fails to make Optimus recall all those late-night horror movies Sari used to watch. “I think, little Autobot, that the masochist is you. Few step away from the mat with Megatron and come back thirsty for more.”   
  
“I don't have a choice.”   
  
“So you say.” Flatline cuts off the welder and sets it aside, magnifying optic peering closer at his work. “There. A fine job if I do say so myself. And I just did.” He pats Optimus on the shoulder, a friendly gesture he has not earned.   
  
Optimus flinches away from the medic, sliding off the berth to see to his frame in the mirror. It is currently a pockmark of dents, gashes, and scrapes. The worst of it had been the gash across his back, what Flatline had just finished welding.   
  
Megatron, even in so-called training, does not hold back.   
  
“He'll kill me before I learn whatever it is he thinks he can teach me,” Optimus mutters, frowning at the state of his paint. Red and blue are dull, scraped through. He doubts he'll be given any nanite filler.   
  
“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that.” Flatline's smirk is heard in his vocals as he turns to clean and put away of his equipment. “Lord Megatron never disposes of an asset. How else do you think Starscream lingered for so long?”   
  
“And now he's dead.”   
  
“Well...” Flatline rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “Accidents do happen.”   
  
Optimus folds his arms over his chestplate. “He didn't accidentally walk into a blast from Megatron's cannon.”   
  
“No. He flew.” Flatline waggles his optical ridge. “Never let it be said that Lord Megatron misses his targets.”   
  
Ugh. Optimus hadn't realized Flatline was such a Megatron fanbot. He's almost worse than Lugnut. At least he refrains from the overly flowery addresses. Our Glorious Megatron. Pffft.   
  
“Am I good to go?” Optimus asks.   
  
Flatline flicks a hand at him. “Sure, sure. There's nothing else you need save a good scrub and a bucket or two of paint. There are washracks down the hall. But unless you can convince Lord Megatron to stop by a supply depot, you're out of luck on the paint.” He pauses, cocks his helm, and grins. “Though I do have several lovely shades of gray and purple that would suit.”   
  
“I'll pass.”   
  
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind...”   
  
“You'll be the first to know,” Optimus says and turns on a heelstrut, heading for the exit. There's only so much he can take of Flatline.   
  
The washracks are thankfully empty. Optimus usually times his ablutions to avoid Decepticon contact. Once upon a time, Optimus would have lingered as he washed his frame, using the time to let his thoughts wander.   
  
It's not safe to do so here.   
  
Optimus washes quickly, brushes in vain at his scraped armor, and returns to his assigned room. His daily routine is the only comfort he's found in his captivity.   
  
That he can't divine Megatron's true intentions turns his recharge restless.   
  
He is safe in his room. This he knows. The door will only open to himself, the serving drone, or Megatron.   
  
That is still little comfort. Especially since there's a new addition, a piece of equipment that hadn't been there when Optimus left upon onlining.   
  
Optimus stares at the console as though it is a bomb waiting to ignite. Did he dare use it? Why would Megatron give him something he could use to furnish his escape?  
  
The screen flickers to life. Unsurprisingly, it is Megatron's face that appears.   
  
“Do you like my gift, little Prime?”   
  
Optimus' optics dim. He loathes the way Megatron addresses him. “What does it cost me?”   
  
Megatron chuckles. “Gifts are meant to be free. You could call it a welcome gift.”   
  
Optimus moves closer to the console. “It's bugged.”   
  
“And sanitized as a matter of course. But it's yours to use. I can't have my favorite captive bored enough to be found wandering the storage bay, now can I?”   
  
Optimus's faceplate heats. “I'd gotten lost,” he lies. “And since I don't have the schematics for this ship, that shouldn't come as a surprise.”   
  
“I never said that it did.” Megatron waves a dismissive hand. “But should you get the urge to wander, you can take the time to educate yourself.”   
  
Optimus crosses his arms. “Decepticon propaganda.”   
  
Red optics flash as Megatron leans toward the screen. “Unfiltered truth,” he clarifies, vocals taking a hard edge. “Autobot and Decepticon alike. It is up to you what you choose to believe, Optimus Prime. Have a pleasant recharge.”   
  
The screen goes dark.   
  
Oo. Must have struck a sensor with that implication.   
  
Optimus squares his jaw and stares at the console. This, he knows, is all part of Megatron's game. He can't _not_ use it. He needs to know what Megatron is willing to offer.   
  
Optimus takes the seat, datacable emerging from his left wrist. He hesitates, wondering if Megatron could have planted some kind of virus or something on it. But then, the Decepticon warlord has had plenty of other opportunities if he wanted to cause Optimus damage. There'd be no point.   
  
Optimus connects.   
  
This may be monitored. This may be sanitized. But he'll take what he can get and he'll find a way.   
  
If there's one thing his time on Earth taught him, it is that there is always another way.   
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starscream is dead! .... or is he? This is TFA after all. Maybe they only think he's dead. Heh heh. I still don't know exactly where this diverges from canon but as soon as I figure it out, I'll let you all know.


	9. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave and Megatron are up to no good.

“Is the uplink working?”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron. I am receiving timely updates and downloads on a continuous basis.”   
  
Megatron fights back a grin, leaning back in his chair and steepling his talons together. “Good. Will it serve it's purpose?”   
  
“Undoubtedly. However, I do caution you. There is some data I won't be able to acquire without a direct link.”   
  
“Which will not be happening.”   
  
“Of course.” Shockwave dips his helm in service, optic dimming. “If I may, Lord Megatron, if you intend to sway the Autobot to our side, why give me access to his systems?”   
  
Megatron does grin this time. “Because I have learned the importance of an alternative source. Optimus will be a Decepticon. But those codes will serve us the sooner the better. How long?”   
  
Shockwave's image fizzles with static for a moment before it clarifies. “That depends on how often he uses the console.”   
  
That is quite fortunate. Because Optimus uses that console every spare moment he has, that is when he's not training with Megatron. And speaking of...  
  
“Good. Inform me when you have something we can use.” Megatron rises to his pedes, rolling his shoulders. “I am late for an engagement.”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron.” The screen fills with static and then goes dark. Signal lost. Not that there's a remote chance of any Autobot hacking and carrying the signal.   
  
All is going perfectly to plan, Megatron ruminates as he leaves his personal quarters and heads for the training arena. They are on course for Cybertron, arriving at a leisurely pace per his orders, and even as he struts, his Decepticons are slipping in past Autobot borders, taking up position.   
  
The Autobots will see the Decepticons attack. Ultra Magnus will rise to thwart Megatron's advance.   
  
They will not be prepared to have their pedes swept out from under them. Nor will they be prepared for the sight of their presumed-dead Prime, standing at Megatron's side. Megatron can succeed without the latter, but his victory will be all the sweeter for it.   
  
Optimus needs only the right nudge. And training him is laying the groundwork.   
  
By the time he arrives at the training arena, Optimus has found another sparring partner. A surprise, albeit a welcome one. There is much Optimus can learn from Slipstream, though Megatron wagers the Seeker-clone has a hidden agenda.   
  
She knows better than to damage something Megatron has claimed, but that doesn't mean she won't walk the fine line.   
  
Megatron keeps to the shadows and watches, evaluating Optimus for improvement. There has been some. His technical skills have increased by leaps and bounds. Though Megatron has been forced to bark at him on more than one occasion to stop thinking so much and start relying on his instincts. That seems to be the most difficult lesson for the Prime to grasp.   
  
He shows promise, of this Megatron is certain. A few more sessions and he should be able to take on any of the clones without issue. Soon after, Megatron can start arranging a few lessons with Blitzwing or Lugnut, provided either of the two are available.   
  
A muffled thump signals the end of the match as Slipstream hits the mat with a snarl and finds herself pinned, Optimus pinching the tip of one wing between his fingers.   
  
“You got lucky,” she hisses.   
  
Optimus inclines his helm. “I am lucky quite often, I've learned.”   
  
Slipstream bears her denta.   
  
Megatron steps into view, a rumble in his engine all the warning he needs give. Her optics shift his direction before she rolls out from under Optimus and to her pedes, wings stiff and raised behind her.   
  
“Lord Megatron.”   
  
He flicks a hand toward her. “Dismissed.”   
  
She says nothing, proving already that she is smarter than her spark donor, and leaves. Megatron is certain he'll hear of this later. He'll indulge her if only to prove his point.   
  
“Watching long?” Optimus asks, frowning as he examines a dent on his right forearm. Compared to the rest of the scuffs on his frame, it's negligible.   
  
Megatron's optics cycle down. “You need a repaint.”   
  
“You don't have my color.”   
  
Megatron offers a crooked smirk. “Perhaps it is time for a change.”   
  
“Not likely.” Optimus displays a remarkable amount of confidence as he strides toward Megatron. “Did you come here to stare or did you have something of use to offer?”   
  
He arches an orbital ridge. “You're getting confident.”   
  
Optimus makes a noncommittal noise. “I'm learning the value of patience.”   
  
Megatron slides into a defensive stance. “You took down Slipstream,” he says, planting his pedes. “It seems you aren't a complete waste of time.”   
  
Optimus' battle mask slides closed with a defining snick, his optics narrowing. “For someone so concerned about time, you're stalling.”   
  
There's a lengthy beat before Megatron laughs. The gall! But the confidence, he reasons, is just that much more appealing.   
  
He launches himself at Optimus, giving no sign of his intentions. There is the briefest flare of surprise before Optimus falls back, swiveling to avoid the first blow. For today, they keep weapons out of combat training. Which is unfortunate for Optimus because Megatron might as well be a living weapon. He has never needed the fusion canon to settle a dispute.   
  
It does, however, make for a slagging fine point.   
  
Optimus dances just out of reach, his optics a brighter hue as it gets when he's thinking too hard and not reacting. Megatron has found this the most difficult aspect of Optimus' personality. Though he is not averse to taking advantage of it.   
  
Megatron attacks, executing a flurry of blows that leave no room for defending and force Optimus to avoid rather than deflect. He all but chases Optimus around the arena, waiting for the Prime to stumble, to react.   
  
Instead, Megatron gets in several strikes. He dents Optimus' side, his thigh, his forearm. He cracks a windshield and bends an audial. Optimus' hiss of pain at the latter is less a cause for amusement than it is for frustration.   
  
“I do not think you are even trying,” Megatron snarls as once again, Optimus absorbs a blow he should have dodged, the backhand rattling hard against his shoulder.   
  
The Prime's engine growls an angry sound. His pedes scrape against the mat. His field escapes his control, lashing with frustration.   
  
It is a good look for him. Megatron smirks.   
  
Optimus aims a wild swing. Megatron ducks and snatches at his wrist, capturing it before Optimus can withdraw. He turns the Prime's own momentum against him, carrying through with the pivotal force to flip Optimus aft over helm, landing with a thud on the mat. Megatron plants one pede on the Prime's chestplate, right between those useless windshields.   
  
Optimus grunts, twitching beneath Megatron, but he outweighs the Autobot by half. Optimus will not move any further than Megatron allows him.   
  
“I find it curious,” Megatron begins, tilting his helm to the side, “that you can spar with Slipstream with little trouble, but lose your focus when it comes to me. Why is that, I wonder?”   
  
Optimus' optics darken, though the battlemask leaves his expression hidden. It can't, however, hide the frazzled spike in his field. “Maybe you are not as good a teacher as you think you are.”   
  
Megatron delivers a fanged smirk. “Perhaps I have a poor student.” He pauses, letting Optimus' chestplate bear a fraction more weight, creaking beneath his pede, before he draws back.   
  
He reaches down, offering the Prime a hand. He expects Optimus to rebuff him, as he always does, and is pleasantly surprised when Optimus reaches back. He hauls the Prime to his pedes, their frames close enough to share heated ventilations. Though Optimus has to tilt his helm back to look Megatron in the optics.   
  
“Am I a waste of your time?” the Prime asks.   
  
“Not yet, you aren't.” Megatron releases the Prime, sending him a few steps backward. “Again. But this time, concentrate. I'll make you useful yet.”   
  
He expects a rebuttal. But again, he is surprised. Optimus does not refute Megatron's claim. His optics brighten, his frame slides into one of the stances he has recently learned, but he does not argue.   
  
Perhaps they are making progress after all.   
  


****


	10. Interaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus tries to befriend a Decepticon. It goes as well as can be expected.

The storage deck is off-limits, not in so many words but since Optimus had been found there, taken back to his room, and summarily gifted with a console to keep him occupied, he understood the picture. He doesn't want to stretch the limits of Megatron's generous nature. He stays away.   
  
They don't mind his presence in the training room. They have no issues with finding him in the medbay. In fact, Flatline always looks happy to see him which as strange as everything else on this ship.   
  
There are several common areas. Optimus tries to avoid them on principle. He is an Autobot amongst Decepticons, most of which are far larger, skilled, and intimidating. While he is protected by holding Megatron's regard, that doesn't say much for “accidents.” Megatron isn't that attached to him.   
  
But after two weeks of the same routine, of Optimus hiding in his assigned room when he's not training with Megatron, enough is enough. He can't wait for rescue. He's going to have to save himself.   
  
The question now is: how?  
  
The first step, perhaps, is interaction. So Optimus eschews his normal routine, gathers his courage, and heads for the nearest common room. That he's relying on Megatron's implicit protection grinds his gears, but he can't keep hiding in his room either. He can't wait for the Autobots to save him.   
  
Sometimes, the princess has to save herself, or so Sari liked to say when they watched all those musical animated movies.   
  
Optimus expects noise, but he is pleasantly surprised when he walks in and finds that it is not even occupied by half. The Decepticons that are present have gathered in small groups, sharing conversation over cubes of the low-grade available from the dispensers.   
  
Optimus has already had his cube for the day. He wonders if Megatron will have him barred or if he would have anticipated Optimus venturing from the safety of his room.   
  
He glances at the gathered Decepticons, a few having noticed his presence, but no one acknowledges him. Yet. He doesn't recognize any of them, but he is very aware that as a majority, they are taller and heavier than he is. They are all also armed, which Optimus is not.   
  
Optimus holds his helm high and strides to the dispensers with a confidence he does not truly feel. Nothing to see here, Cons. Just your Autobot prisoner, here for a daily stroll that hopefully does not get him killed.   
  
The nearest dispenser reacts to his proximity and scans Optimus from helm to pede, perhaps reading his spark energy or ident code or whatever the Decepticons use. It makes a strange noise and offers nothing.   
  
“Since when does Megatron let his pet Autobot go underfueled?”   
  
Optimus startles at the unexpected voice but forces himself to calm down. This is his purpose in coming here now. Interaction is the key.   
  
He turns to find a dark gray and black Decepticon with multiple optics staring up at him. That he is taller than the mech is the first surprise.   
  
“He doesn't,” Optimus replies warily as the mech – a grounder he realizes by the tires – moves past him, presses a button, and the dispenser spits out a cube, albeit a small one. “I was curious.”   
  
Four optics blink at him in arrhythmic succession. “Curious,” he repeats. “See where that got you in the storage decks.”   
  
Yes. Cuffed and marched back to his room like a human child who had been caught misbehaving.   
  
Optimus' faceplates heat. “It's a big warship.”   
  
The mech laughs at him. “So it is.” He pushes the cube toward Optimus, tilting his helm. “And I guess you came here because you were curious.”   
  
“You could say that.” He takes the cube, though now he's uncertain whether or not he should consume it.   
  
“That was pretty stupid.” The grounder leans against the dispenser, crossing his awkwardly long arms. “If I had to count the number of mechs in here who'd love to have a go at you, well, I'd run out of digits.”   
  
Optimus forces himself not to turn around, to look at each and every Decepticon in turn. Weakness, he knows, is not tolerated amongst the Decepticons. Neither is fear.   
  
“I can take care of myself.”   
  
“Hah. I'd like to see that.” The mech pushes himself up and leans closer to Optimus, his field drizzling against Optimus' in a manner that's not unpleasant, but is quite unwelcome. “Watch your back, Autobot. You're in way over your helm.”   
  
And then he snatches the cube from Optimus' hands and stalks away, without so much as a parting word or a designation. Instead he leaves behind a warning that feels more like a threat.   
  
Optimus watches him join a table of Decepticons, three others. Two of them are grounders, but the third is a rotary, bigger than all the others at the table. He pats the dark gray 'Con on the helm, heedless to the growl the smallest of them snarls his direction.   
  
“You don't have access to the dispensers because the system doesn't recognize you as one of us. But you should be able to draw some oil.”   
  
Optimus lifts his helm, optics tracing the voice to a Decepticon who is sitting at the table nearest the dispensers. This one, he remembers, had been alone when Optimus had first arrived. And he's still alone now.   
  
He is large, equal to Lugnut at the very least, with massive tank turrets protruding from his backplate. He is also hidden by both a visor and a blast mask.   
  
“Oil?” Optimus repeats.   
  
One large hand, easily capable of shoving Optimus helm first into the wall, gestures to the dispenser nearest to him. “Courtesy of Octane.”   
  
The designation is unfamiliar to Optimus, but as this is the closest thing to a friendly conversation he's had, it's a start. He dares approach, helping himself to the oil dispenser, which does indeed grant him access. What emerges is light in color, but rich in taste according to his olfactory sensors. It's not unlike what could be found on Earth actually.   
  
“Thank you,” he says, not that Decepticons abide politeness.   
  
The mech sits back in his chair, the metal creaking beneath his weight. “Don't mind Barricade. He's got a classic case of small mech syndrome. His mouth is the largest part on him.”   
  
Optimus grins behind the safety of his face mask. “I noticed.” He tilts his helm. “And what about you?”   
  
“Me?” The mech spreads his hands, field extending with a polite greeting. “I happen to like Autobots. They have a certain... aesthetic quality that I find appealing.”   
  
Aesthetic. Really. Optimus goes looking for a possible ally and what does he find? Someone in search of a frag. Which is the least possible outcome he could have expected.   
  
Well, he supposes with an internal sigh, beggars can't be choosers. Right now, he'll take what he can get.   
  
Optimus invites himself to the open seat, pretending that he's not intimidated by the fact his new friend looms over him without trying. “You know my name,” he says, allowing his face mask to open in a show of trust he doesn't feel. “But I don't know yours.”   
  
The mech curls fingers around his own container of oil, the brightness of his visor hinting to a smile beneath the mask. “Onslaught.”   
  
It doesn't ring familiar, but it is a name that Optimus can research later. Provided his sanitized console will give him the answers.   
  
Optimus makes himself comfortable. “I would say it's nice to meet you but considering the circumstances, it wouldn't be honest.”   
  
There's a rumble of laughter. “That, my new friend, is always subject to change.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: So I've got another piece to write before I can post the one I wrote for the most recent flash fiction. lol. For some reason, I'm totally writing this out of order. Heh.
> 
> Oh, and I've figured out where this diverges. Right during A Bridge Too Close, Part II. I'll go into more detail in future updates though. ;)
> 
> And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. I'm still kind of new to TFA and I love feedback.


	11. Criss-Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onslaught reports success and Megatron is not as pleased as he ought to be.

Megatron is on the bridge, clicking through a series of star maps, when his plating prickles and he knows he's being watched. There are few mechs onboard this ship who would not immediately announce themselves and would also have the bearings to approach him, which means he doesn't need more than one guess.   
  
“I presume you have good news for me?”   
  
“That depends on the outcome you intended.”   
  
Onslaught. He'd been right.   
  
Megatron taps the screen to save his calculations and turns to face his general. “You made contact?”   
  
Onslaught's visor brightens, a hint to the smirk beneath his mask. “Barricade is nothing if not useful. One of these orn he might even figure out how much and demand more for his services.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“You were right.” Onslaught steps closer, lowering his vocals to keep others from overhearing. Though of his soldiers on the bridge, most are wise enough to not make it obvious they are eavesdropping. “He's looking for allies.”   
  
Not unexpected.   
  
Megatron moves past his general and gestures for Onslaught to follow him, mentally chewing on this detail. Autobots are notoriously social creatures. It was only a matter of time before Optimus overcame his inhibitions and ventured beyond the circle Megatron crafted for him. Especially if he thinks there is still some chance for escape.   
  
Megatron holds no illusions. If Optimus is looking for allies, he will find them. Megatron knows that there are some Decepticons sympathetic to the Autobots. It's his job to make sure Optimus doesn't find those Decepticons, or if he does, it's only so Megatron can remove them from his ship.   
  
“I'm certain you're using the utmost subtlety in presenting yourself as one,” Megatron says once they are finally clear of the bridge.   
  
Onslaught chuckles. “This one does not require much subterfuge. You have left him lonely, Lord Megatron. Was it your intent to isolate him so?”   
  
“He is a prisoner. He is not meant to have friends.”   
  
Onslaught makes a low noise that Megatron is hard-pressed to identify. “A prisoner that we do not keep in the brig? I'm not even sure the infantry will believe that one. Sir.” The latter is belatedly added.   
  
Megatron tosses a glare at Onslaught but unfortunately, his general is of a size with him, and skill. Megatron is not about to brawl with Onslaught here in the hallway. But that doesn't mean he'll forget this discourtesy either.   
  
Onslaught blithely returns the look, his expression hidden by that damnable visor and mask. “In fact, Barricade tells me there's a rumor spreading amid the lower ranks.”   
  
“A rumor.”   
  
“That the Prime is more than a means to an end.”   
  
Megatron looks at Onslaught from the edge of his optical feed. “Is there not enough tasks to be completed around here that my Decepticons have nothing better to do than gossip?”   
  
Onslaught's engine rumbles. “Does that mean you're not interested in cuddling the cute Autobot?” He tilts his helm to the side.   
  
Megatron keys the door open to his office and gestures Onslaught to precede him. His general obeys and that only earns him the barest of mercies.   
  
The moment the door slides shut, Megatron grasps him by the throat and shoves him against the door, the dull thud echoing in the confines of his office. His free hand grabs and twists Onslaught's wrists before the thought to retaliate can even cross Onslaught's processor. And he doesn't miss the subtle whine of defensive subroutines cycling up.   
  
“Watch him. Befriend him,” Megatron hisses in a low tone. “But it goes no further. Understand?”   
  
He can feel Onslaught's intake working beneath his fingers.   
  
“But of course, my lord,” Onslaught says, and his visor dims. His frame is noticeably tense, his field so flat as to be stale. “This is only a mission. I would never think to overstep my bounds.” His free hand rises as though to wrap around Megatron's wrist, but he hesitates and closes his fingers into a fist. “Shall I relay that order to the troops?”   
  
Megatron's optics narrow. Perhaps choosing Onslaught for this task was not the best idea after all. But it's too late to reissue the order. It simply means he'll have to keep a closer watch on Onslaught.   
  
“You can tighten Vortex's leash,” Megatron says. “That will be restriction enough.” He tightens his grip a fraction more, feeling the metal give a little beneath his fingers, before he releases Onslaught and takes a step back.   
  
Onslaught does not move, save to touch his intake with the tip of two fingers. “And Swindle?” His vocals have a touch of static to them.   
  
This Megatron does have an answer for. “Strika has him. Perform admirably and I'll see that you are reunited with your team.”   
  
Onslaught's visor glows a baleful red at him. “Of course, my lord. I live to serve.” The dip of his helm is a performance for his own benefit.   
  
“Dismissed.”   
  
Onslaught's salute is picture-perfect, and he takes himself from Megatron's office without further comment.   
  
Megatron presses his lipplates together and steps behind his desk, activating his comm with an expectation that he will not be ignored.  
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron?”   
  
“Blitzwing,” Megatron says, his engine rumbling with disquiet. “Report to my office. I have a task for you.” He ends the comm without waiting for Blitzwing to acknowledge.   
  
He, at least, is both reliable and loyal. And Onslaught bears watching by someone Megatron can trust.   
  


****


	12. Stratego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A political debate in which Optimus dares to poke the sleeping tiger.

It should be awkward. That it isn't makes Optimus painfully aware that while he resists, it might already be too late.   
  
Perhaps he should give himself props for no longer being afraid of Megatron. Not that he's ever been afraid, per se. But wary certainly.   
  
He studies the game board, well aware that Megatron is studying him in return. He resists the urge to ask the question he's asked Megatron countless times already. Because Megatron has yet to give him a satisfactory answer.   
  
“You are quiet, little Prime.”   
  
Optimus clenches his denta and reminds himself not to rise to Megatron's taunting. “I have a name,” he says.   
  
Megatron chuckles. “I know.” He makes a gesture toward Optimus as though encouraging him to make a move faster. “My observation stands.”   
  
He selects his game piece but hesitates. “I'm not quiet,” Optimus says. “I'm thinking.”   
  
“Of ways to escape my company, no doubt.”   
  
Optimus makes a noncommittal noise and finally completes his turn. He sits back to watch Megatron contemplate his own. “Actually, I was considering something you said.”   
  
“Do tell.”   
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation and hopes he is up for this challenge. It's time to start laying the framework.   
  
“You see yourself as a hero. A liberator. But countless mechs and femmes have died by your hands and your orders.” Optimus is careful to keep his tone even, resisting the urge to squirm. “Isn't that kind of contradictory?”  
  
Silence. The weight of Megatron's stare is like double-reinforced armor on his backstruts.   
  
“You've been studying,” Megatron finally says at length.   
  
Optimus nods. “I have little else to do.” Well, other than slowly but surely making friends of the Decepticons aboard the ship. Not only Onslaught, but also a twitchy little mech named Reflector who didn't look at all like a Decepticon.   
  
“Mm.” Megatron looks at him, tilting his helm. “The Autobots paint me as the villain, yes. They don't see the hypocrisy of their words. Or the evil in their oppression.”   
  
Optimus leans back, only half-feigning his interest. He's read the propaganda and he knows the Autobots are not completely innocent. But hes not about to start waving a Decepticon flag either.   
  
Nothing justifies Megatron's methods, murdering innocent and guilty alike.   
  
“I have only done what has needed to be done,” Megatron continues, words as slow and carefully chosen as his efforts on the gameboard. “To ensure that no mech is ever denied the right to exist.”   
  
“Except for those you killed.”   
  
“Necessary sacrifices.”   
  
“I'm not sure they saw it the same way.”   
  
Megatron sets down his piece with a defining click, completing his turn. “There is little I can do for those too foolish to see through Autobot indoctrination.”   
  
Optimus pops an orbital ridge. “So you punish them for their ignorance?”   
  
Megatron's optics narrow. “I remove obstacles,” he all but hisses.   
  
There's a pause, a moment where Optimus cycles a ventilation and gathers himself. He leans forward, stares at the board, and then shifts his gaze to Megatron.   
  
“And yet, I still function,” he says, and completes his turn swiftly.   
  
Checkmate, is what Sari would say, though the game they play is not chess, there are similarities. Enough that while Optimus ought to feel smug, he doesn't. Because Megatron is violent and unpredictable and Optimus has sat here doing his best to provoke him.   
  
Megatron leans back, casual as you please. “You are not an obstacle,” he says, fingers rapping a nonsense rhythm on his chair. “You are an indulgence.”   
  
Curious choice of words. Optimus is not sure he likes their implication.   
  
“You still think I'm going to change sides?”   
  
“I know you are.” Megatron doesn't once look at the game board as though he has already dismissed that particular stumble. “Tell me, little Autobot, do you know where we are right now?”   
  
Optimus scowls. “Of course I don't.”   
  
Megatron's lips pull into a slow smirk. “We currently occupy neutral space, an Earth week's journey from Cybertron and well within communication range of anyone who wishes to hail us. No, you don't have to believe me. You can confirm this for yourself later.”   
  
And Optimus will be sure to do that. But not until he figures out where Megatron is going with this change of subject.   
  
“I have made no secret of where I am,” Megatron continues, completely at ease. “After all, not even the Autobots would dare encroach neutral space to attack me. And yet, no one has asked about you. Don't you find that odd?”   
  
“I would, if I wasn't certain everyone probably thinks I'm dead,” Optimus retorts. Is that Megatron's endgame? To make Optimus doubt his allies? Because it's not going to work. Optimus trusts his team, even if he doesn't trust Sentinel. He knows that they are at least trying, even if they aren't succeeding.   
  
“They know you live. It simply doesn't matter to them.”   
  
Optimus paints a neutral expression and wonders which course he should take. Should he fake belligerence or pretend that he believes Megatron?  
  
He falls back, lapsing into silence. He stares at the gameboard, feigning distress. “I am one mech,” he says. “And I'm sure you would have demanded some absurd random. I can't fault them for that. Besides, you can't tell me the Decepticons would have behaved any differently.”   
  
He doesn't have to look at Megatron to know he's right. Autobots go back for their own, but he's only ever seen Decepticons leave their own behind. If Megatron wants to take the high ground, he needs to start looking where he steps first.   
  
“There's a difference,” Megatron replies and he rises to his pedes as he says this, something cold-burning behind his optics. “Autobots never offer the return of my soldiers. And if I don't retrieve them myself, it's because they never live long enough for a rescue effort to be launched.”   
  
Optimus squares his jaw. “I don't believe you.”   
  
“Then fortunately for you, I don't live or die by your faith in me.” Megatron reaches for the gameboard and makes a move, one that Optimus realizes ends the game.   
  
“I will see you for training in an hour,” Megatron says, his voice as tight as his field. “Don't be late.”   
  
He sweeps from the room, taking the weight of his presence with him, and Optimus can only watch him go. There's a tension that hadn't been present before and it takes him a moment to realize that he's holding his ventilations. He doesn't know if it's out of fear or something else but for a moment, he expected Megatron to strike him.   
  
Sometimes, he forgets just how dangerous this game can be.   
  
Optimus laces his fingers together and rests his elbows on his knees, staring at the board. Pulling victory from defeat, he observes.   
  
He should not be so surprised.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: So. Still pretty nervous about this fic. First forays into new universes are always nerve-wracking. Special thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. Your comments are what keep me going and keep the muses chomping. :)
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. And if anyone has a Decepticon (or even Autobot maybe?) they'd like to see make an appearance, lemme know. I need some 'Cons to fill in some gaps and I could rely only on my favorites, but yanno, nice to branch out?


	13. Debates and Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron dodges Optimus' questions, presents a couple of his own, and in the mean time, Strika acquires a few Autobots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dellessa's flash fiction prompt: MegatronxOptimus, TFA, reserved

He lets Optimus stew for a couple days, not that he doesn't watch from afar. Despite their heated _discussion_ , Optimus is not dissuaded from making friends. He draws more into his sphere of influence beyond Onslaught and Reflector. The only one who might possibly be of concern is Octane but Megatron is not worried. Barricade assures him that he and his team have surveillance well in hand.   
  
Besides, not only does this give Optimus time to consider, but it also gives Megatron time to finish setting his plans in motion. Optimus is only a side project. Retaking Cybertron remains the ultimate objective, with or without the Prime's assistance.   
  
Shockwave reports an increasing restlessness in the Autobot element. There have been murmurs over Optimus' disappearance, but they are limited to a select few. No one of high rank cares to notice. What Ultra Magnus is thinking, Megatron has no clue.   
  
He'd looked into Optimus' history, or he'd had Shockwave do so. He'd seen the Prime's files, what had caused him to be expelled from the Academy and banished to the far corners of Autobot territory for space bridge maintenance.   
  
Someone wants Optimus Prime out of the way. Megatron is inclined to find out who. And why. It can't have been Sentinel, that buffoon is in no way capable of thinking that far ahead. Ultra Magnus, however, is no fool. He has some reason for being rid of Optimus without resorting to assassination, but Megatron has yet to discern what. He doubts Optimus knows either.   
  
No. Optimus is the sort to insist that his punishment is his due as he fails to recognize his own value. Having a friend like Sentinel does not help matters, Megatron supposes. But if he could somehow use that, cultivate a confidence in Optimus, well, the Prime can make a fine Decepticon.   
  
He only has to break through that damnable Autobot indoctrination first.   
  
This time, Megatron summoned Optimus to his office. Usually, he sought out the little Prime, a planned concession to allowing Optimus to think he is more than a prisoner.   
  
When the Autobot arrives, it is with a sullen air better reserved for sparklings. To be fair, in Megatron's optics, Optimus is very young. Young and naive, though perhaps losing some of that naivete the longer he remains aboard the warship.   
  
“You called?” Optimus asks, lingering just inside the door frame with a quick glance to the offered chair as though it is there to harm him.   
  
It is almost adorable. Megatron knows the stories, the lies, the Autobots spread about him and his Decepticons. Contrary to popular belief, he does not consume Autobot protoforms for breakfast. They are not nearly nutritious enough.   
  
“I thought we might have a conversation,” Megatron says, pushing away just far enough from his desk to appear casual. “Have a seat.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrows but he does sit, though on the edge of the chair with his backstrut perfectly straight. “A conversation.”   
  
“A friendly conversation.” After all, Optimus has no issues with chatting up Megatron's Decepticons in the refectory and trying to make friends or allies. So it can't be that Optimus doesn't like talking to Decepticons.   
  
Of course, it doesn't come as a surprise that Optimus' hesitance is related to Megatron. He thinks Onslaught and Reflector and Octane to be safer, never mind that two of them are larger even than Megatron. Optimus hasn't a clue what madness he's let near his spark.   
  
Onslaught might be obeying Megatron because he has learned the consequences of his disobedience. But he is using Optimus for his own ends just as much.   
  
“We're not friends,” Optimus says.  
  
“True. But that doesn't mean we can't be friendly.” Megatron resists the urge to smile. It never does much to put the little Prime at ease.   
  
“With my captor? Impossible.” Optimus huffs a ventilation. “What do you really want, Megatron? I'm tired of playing games with you.”   
  
Megatron leans back and braces one ankle strut over a knee, lacing his fingers together across his abdominal plating. It highlights the fact that he'd removed his plasma cannon, setting it aside for the conversation. See, little Autobot, how much less of a threat he is?   
  
“I want what I have always wanted, Prime,” Megatron begins, studying Optimus' faceplate for signs of comprehension. “To return to my home. To be treated as a mech worthy of basic inalienable rights. And to defeat the Autobots, who would prefer above all else, to maintain the status quo.”   
  
Optimus' face ripples with irritation. “You're being purposefully obtuse.”   
  
“Am I?” He arches an orbital ridge.   
  
Optimus grips the arms of his chair, his field loosened from his tight control so that Megatron gets a brief taste of it. Frustration. Confusion. The beginning threads of dispirit.   
  
He is at a very receptive stage.   
  
Behind Megatron, his console beeps, indicating an incoming transmission. He half-turns, reading the ident code – Strika. This is either very good or very bad news, but knowing his general, Megatron is inclined to think of it as the former. She has yet to lose him a battle.   
  
Megatron accepts the call, reading the burst of surprise from Optimus' field as he does so. No doubt the Prime expected to be dismissed. It might yet happen. But, for now, let him see first hand the truth of Megatron's leadership.   
  
“Strika,” he greets as the screen flashes and her faceplate comes into view, a haze of recent battle around her and a patch of temp plating on one shoulder. But it is not the expression of one who has suffered defeat. “I trust you have good news?”   
  
“Yes, my lord.” Her gaze flicks past him, to Optimus, but she does not question his presence. “We've taken the space bridge with no casualties on our end. Several Autobots are in our custody.”   
  
Behind him, Megatron hears Optimus' chair creak, his ventilations stutter, but he doesn't speak. He shows concern for these Autobots, despite not being around to be friendly with them. Interesting.   
  
“Are they of any use?” Megatron asks, careful to keep his tone mild.   
  
“One is a Prime. Oilslick awaits my orders to give him the antidote.”   
  
“Antidote?”   
  
“Cosmic Rust, my lord.”   
  
Eugh. Not a pleasant manner in which to offline. Megatron would have preferred his Decepticons to be more straightforward in their talents, but needs must.   
  
“Give it to him.” Should Optimus prove unhelpful by the end, it is wise to have a back up plan. “Treat our guests with care, Strika. We have a war to win.”   
  
Strika is silent a moment, as though trying to read deeper into his orders. No doubt she'll ask him later, without his Autobot eavesdropper, about clarification. He doesn't plan on rescinding the command. He needs those Autobots alive.   
  
War is fought on more fronts than battles of blaster and fist. He could kill all Autobots, take Cybertron by force, and still find himself the loser. If there is anything his time on Earth has taught him, it is that there is more to victory than destroying his opponents in their entirety.   
  
“As you say, Lord Megatron,” Strika says, her tone carefully neutral. “Slipstream proved an effective leader. I have yet to see if the others are useful yet.”   
  
Megatron raps his fingers on the edge of the desk, considering. Strika has taken several of Starscream's clones under her supervision, along with the Constructicons. They are her helmache to handle. He trusts that she will either turn them into effective soldiers, or find some way to be rid of them.   
  
“I see.” Behind him, Optimus makes another noise but it is not enough for Megatron to acknowledge him. “And the other Autobots?”   
  
“There is a medic and three warriors. One will not survive. He would not surrender.”   
  
A pity. Well, you can't win them all.   
  
Megatron inclines his helm. “Very good. I expect to hear from Turmoil and Scourge shortly. As soon as I do, I will give the order for the next stage. Continue to hold your position.”   
  
“Yes, my lord. As you command.” Strika ducks her helm in a bow, but her optics flick to Optimus once more before the screen fuzzes out into static. She is not truly gone, but Optimus does not know that.   
  
“Planning on a public execution?”   
  
He's surprised Optimus has waited this long to say something. Megatron turns slowly back to the Autobot.   
  
“I'm not an Autobot,” Megatron replies, bracing his elbows on the arms of his chair and lacing his fingers together. “I don't need such gestures to prove my superiority.”   
  
The little Prime's face darkens with emotion, disbelief and disdain chief among them. “Then what are you going to do with them? More pets for your collection?”   
  
Megatron chuckles. “When the one I have is so much trouble? I think not. They'll be safe and sound in Strika's brig until such time as I have reclaimed Cybertron.”   
  
“You seem confident that you'll win.”   
  
His lips pulls into a smirk as Megatron rises to his pedes. “My dear, Prime. What both you and the rest of Autobot High Command fail to realize is that I already have.” The destruction of the space bridge on Earth had been a setback, not a defeat. And as a matter of fact, it has proven fortuitous.   
  
Not only has he gained more skilled soldiers, but more time to further enact his plan has given him a better foothold on Cybertron. He will lose far less soldiers this way.   
  
Megatron braces his weight on the desk and looks straight into Optimus' optics. “What remains to be seen is whether you will make the smart choice, or the fatal one. While I have spent considerable resource on you, you are not irreplaceable.” He pauses, a touch of irony attacking him. “What is it the Autobots say, after all? _You are but a cog in the great machine_?”   
  
Anger darkens the Prime's expression, his lips thinning in a manner that makes him far more attractive than the sullen cast he'd brought in earlier.   
  
“You're mocking me,” he says.   
  
“I am trying to make you think rather than blindly follow the propaganda they've been feeding you for all your function,” Megatron corrects, not that it does anything to soothe the Prime's growing frustration.   
  
His optics have darkened. His frame grows tense. His field is stark and withdrawn. Were he a Decepticon, this probably would have come to physical blows. Neat and clean. Afterward, they would have made great friends.   
  
But Optimus is still Autobot. And he relies on words when they no longer suffice.   
  
He pushes to his pedes, chair shrieking out from beneath him. “No. You want me to believe your propaganda instead. As if it's any better.”   
  
Optimus is as stubborn as Starscream, Megatron notes with some irritation.   
  
“Then allow me to ask you something,” Megatron says, but he holds up a hand before Optimus can speak. “No. I don't expect you to answer. I only expect you to think about the answers.”   
  
Optimus clamps his mouth shut and he glares, but he indicates that he will listen. Good. It is a start.   
  
“One,” Megatron begins and he holds up a finger. “What did Ultra Magnus tell you when you first contacted him upon finding the Allspark?”  
  
He's had many, many years to consider what happened. While Megatron is glad that he hadn't been set upon by the entire Elite Guard at the time, it has been a curious thing. Even more so when upon waking on Earth, the Elite Guard still had not come to Optimus Prime's aid. Despite knowing of the presence of Decepticons on the planet.   
  
It could come down that they don't care what happens to Earth, but it would also mean that they don't much care about what happens to Optimus Prime either. Which is startlingly short-sighted considering that Optimus is one of their precious Primes. And will Optimus think to question it? Of course not. No doubt the fool thinks he deserves it because it is his punishment after the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his friend, Elita-One.   
  
To Megatron, it comes as no surprise that politics are still the name of the game on Cybertron. That is simply how the Autobots have and always will function. Which is why that institution needs to be destroyed. But that is neither here nor there for the moment.   
  
What he needs is for Optimus to start thinking and stop regurgitating his textbooks. And maybe, somewhere in there, realize that he's more valuable than just some cog. Because at the core of it, that is what the Decepticons want – to be more than a piece of some great machine.   
  
“And two, how is it do you think I awakened? Because it was not Sumdac tinkering with my systems that brought me out of my stasis.”   
  
Optimus needs reminding that the Allspark is not an Autobot artifact. It is a Cybertronian one. Meant for all Cybertronians, not just who the Autobots deem worthy.   
  
Optimus' gaze shifts away, his field flattening. He is, at least, considering the questions.   
  
Megatron sits back down, rearranging himself comfortably in his chair. “You may go,” he says, gesturing to the Prime. “I believe Onslaught is waiting for you, after all.” A reminder, he hoped, that Optimus is not as sneaky as he thought himself to be.   
  
Heat flushes the little Prime's faceplate. “It's a training session.”   
  
“Indeed.”   
  
And it had better remain a training session if Onslaught wishes to remain functional. Megatron is well aware of the mech's inclinations.   
  
Optimus stares at him for a moment longer before he turns on a heelstrut and takes his leave, his field a confusing tangle of emotion.   
  
Behind Megatron, his console continues to flash, reminding him that Strika waits for him to return to the call. The false static clears from the screen, resolving into the faceplate of his soon-to-be second-in-command. He can think of none better suited for the role.   
  
“Is your investment paying off?”   
  
Megatron spins back around to face her with a smirk. “We shall see.”   
  
“I do not understand why you do not be rid of the Autobot, my Lord. He is too smart to be kept caged.”   
  
“I am loathe to be rid of anything or anyone that could be useful.” If there is anyone he could trust with the particulars of his plan, it is Strika. And perhaps Shockwave, but that worthy is unavailable. “Tell me, Strika, what do you know of construction? Of economics? Of energon farming or judicial proceedings?”   
  
A light of understanding brightens her optics. “Very little.”   
  
“Precisely. Autobots have their uses. And while I can take over Cybertron, retaining it is another issue. The more I appease the masses, the less likely they are to form a revolution of their own.”   
  
A small smile curves Strika's lips. “You have learned, my lord.”   
  
“The humans aren't entirely useless.” There had been very little to do while trapped as nothing but his helm but study the world in which he'd found himself. And the humans are very, very good at warfare.   
  
“Organics have their place,” Strika chuckles. “Shall I try and court these Autobots, too, or save you the honor?”   
  
“Do what you think is best. We could always use more medics.” What he has in his medbay could hardly be called a medical staff. Few Decepticon field medics had survived the first war. And of course, without access to the Academy, he can train no others.   
  
Strika's grin would have struck fear into the sparks of many an Autobot. “I've the feeling she and Slipstream will make nice.”  
  
“I wish you luck.”   
  
“And you as well, my lord. Autobots are not be easily tamed and I suspect that one is more stubborn than most.”   
  
Megatron flashes his denta. “Then it is fortunate I do not seek a minion.”   
  
Strika laughs and signed off, as busy if not more than Megatron himself. He relies on her for many things, far more than Scourge or Turmoil, the latter of whom he can not trust, like Onslaught. However, unlike Onslaught, Megatron does not have something of value to Turmoil. There might come a time when he will need to dispose of the mech.   
  
But for now, Turmoil remains useful.   
  
Just like Optimus Prime.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) Notice how often Megatron doesn't answer the questions Optimus presents. Ah. He's so much fun to write. This story is getting more and more out of hand but I just can't stop. Also, a few tidbits of retcon in here because now that I know where my story has been, I realized I forgot a few things/characters/events. Oops. Expect to see a few more in future updates.
> 
> As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated.


	14. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus is getting a little too comfortable in the presence of Decepticons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For jeegoo's flash fiction prompt of Megatron/Optimus, peripheral

Another day, another spar, the only difference is his dance partner.   
  
Onslaught is smaller and less massive than Megatron, but it's a difference of degrees because he still outclasses Optimus in every aspect. Onslaught, at least, doesn't mock Optimus for his shortcomings. He shows more patience than Megatron.   
  
He's also quite a bit more _handsy_ than Megatron.   
  
Optimus pretends not to notice. He needs allies more than he needs to preserve his dignity or his personal space. If a little grope of his interface panel or a hand sliding down his aft or a flirtatious nip at his audial makes Onslaught more inclined to listen, all the better.   
  
He's heard rumors. He listens when mech thinks he's not paying attention. Onslaught is not as perfectly loyal to Megatron as most of the mechs on this warship. There's a friction there, a source of contempt. Optimus doesn't know the source of it yet, but he'll find out. And then find some way to make use of it.   
  
Thank you, Sentinel, for teaching him that much.   
  
_Wham_!  
  
Optimus hits the mat, processor swirling as he struggles to recover from the sudden impact. He forces himself to roll to his side and then into a crouch, warily watching as Onslaught circles him.   
  
“You're not paying attention, Optimus,” Onslaught says, his visor glinting with humor. His battle mask is retracted; he never bothers to close it. “Your thoughts are elsewhere.”   
  
“Do you want me to apologize?”   
  
Onslaught chuckles, rolling his helm about his shoulders as though gearing up for a great attack. “I would like for you to try again.” He lifts a hand, beckoning Optimus with a single finger. “Come a little bit closer this time.”   
  
The last is about a purr, the dark tones rippling through Optimus' audials and across his substructure. Not for the first time does he suppress a shudder. Given a different situation, perhaps he might have been genuinely attracted to Onslaught. His preferences had always been a closely guarded secret.   
  
Autobots aren't meant to like warframes. But Optimus has always been drawn to them. To their size, their power. His presence on the warship is a unique kind of torture, his interface systems pinging him at the proximity of so many larger warframes, while his processor supplies him with all the ways they can tear him apart. It's jarring, the push-pull between terror and arousal.   
  
It makes his interactions with Megatron all that much more complicated. And it also means that letting Onslaught grope him is a mixed bag of emotions. Part of him shudders with revulsion. Another, less wiser part of him, reminds Optimus that it has been a long, long time since he's had any hands on his spike but his own.   
  
Optimus pushes himself to his stabilizers and gives his plating a good shake. His cooling fans are working full bore and condensation has gathered on his armor. But he's far from exhausted, and any training is good training at this point.   
  
He'll find a way to be free yet.   
  
Optimus launches himself at Onslaught. It's a matter of leverage, not force, he reminds himself. He thinks to encourage Onslaught to strike at him first, to turn the mech's own momentum against him.   
  
And then he isn't quite sure what happens next, only knowing that his advance is thwarted quicker than Optimus can cycle his optics. One pede sweeps out from under him and he tilts forward, destined to hit the mat, only Onslaught's other hand scoops him up as though he weighs nothing, wrists easily trapped by the scope of said hand.   
  
Optimus is not quite dangling, but it's a near thing. And it's effective, because he doesn't have enough leverage against the floor to do anything more than try and brace his weight against his protesting shoulder servos.   
  
Onslaught pulls him closer, large frame venting heated blasts down on Optimus' own.  
  
“You see, Optimus,” Onslaught purrs. His hand skates down Optimus' back, fingers nearing the curve of his aft. “I now have you right where I want you.”  
  
It takes all he has to repress the tremble in his plating.   
  
“Onslaught.”   
  
The vocals send an abrupt shiver down Optimus' spinal strut. From the corner of his visual feed he can see Megatron standing at the edge of the mat, his arms crossed over his chestplate. The cannon on his arm seems particularly shiny. As does the baleful look in his optics.   
  
Optimus staggers as Onslaught lets him go, all but pushing him away.   
  
“Lord Megatron.” Onslaught half-tilts into a deferential bow. “Did you come to observe our training session?”   
  
One orbital ridge arches. “Is that what it was?” There is no amusement to be found in Megatron's low growl. “I was under a different impression.”   
  
Optimus glances between the two, watching Onslaught's battle mask slide shut with a quick snap as Megatron stares at his subordinate. Optimus might as well not be standing here for all the attention he is being paid.   
  
“It was training alone,” Onslaught assures.   
  
“Training you encouraged, if I'm not mistaken,” Optimus adds, tired of being forgotten. And maybe it's not the smartest thing to do, to provoke Megatron who is already clearly agitated, but he's tired of the games.   
  
If Megatron is going to scrap him to the Pit and back, he needs to get it over with. Show himself for the creature he really is instead of all this pretending.   
  
Megatron's gaze shifts to him. Optimus plants bravado on his face, returning it evenly. And then Megatron steps onto the mat and Optimus braces himself.   
  
_That's it_ , he thinks, _show me who you really are_.   
  
“You're dismissed,” Megatron says without looking at the other mech.   
  
“Of course, my liege.”   
  
“And Onslaught?”   
  
The other Decepticon doesn't turn, but he does pause, a certain tension to his plating that hints at the underlying friction between them. “Yes, sir?”   
  
“I will see you in my office later.”   
  
Onslaught's armor clamps tighter to his frame, if that is even at all possible. “Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
And then he is gone. So, too, is their audience. Whether because Megatron had cast them all a scathing glance or they recognized the dark buzz to their leader's field, Optimus did not know. But he feels just a bit more unsafe knowing there are no witnesses save the cameras.   
  
Not that there is anyone who will step in to protect him. His greatest defense has always been the mech still eating up the distance between them, nothing welcoming in his expression.   
  
Still, Optimus is going to stand his ground. Being wary of Megatron and being afraid of Megatron are not the same thing.   
  
“You've grown braver,” Megatron observed and there's a lot less.... anger in his vocals than Optimus would have expected.   
  
He blinks, confused. Where is the beating? He glances at Megatron's hands, but they are loose at the warlord's side.   
  
“I've never cowered,” Optimus retorts and his gaze drags back to Megatron's face, which has lost some of it's furious cast. “Are you going to tell me now that I can only train with you? Or maybe you're going to put me back in chains? Will you keep me by your side at all times?”   
  
And no, interface system, that is not a cue to stand up and take notice, thank you very much. Optimus forcefully shuts those protocols down and hopes that Megatron attributes the whir in his vents to his recent exertion.   
  
Megatron snorts a ventilation. “Hardly.” He reaches for Optimus and Optimus sidesteps the hand. If Megatron wants to grab him and beat him, Optimus is going to make him work for it.   
  
“Then what's your objection?” Optimus demands. He wishes for his axe, if only because it'll serve as a better defense.   
  
“Your choice in training partners.” Megatron's lips twist in a sneer. “You have poor taste.”   
  
Optimus pops an orbital ridge. “He's your soldier.”   
  
“There are others.”   
  
“I suppose you want me to seek your approval every time then.” Optimus steps to the side again and notices that Megatron turns to keep an optic on him, something curious in his gaze and almost calculating. “Might be better to keep me locked up like the prisoner I am.”   
  
“Hmm.” Megatron tilts his helm. “Where did you find those bearings, little Prime? You are unusually charming today.”   
  
“Charming!” Optimus chokes on a vent.   
  
Anger abandons Megatron, leaving amusement in its place. “As I said.” His engine gives a rumble that might be mistaken for a laugh. “I suppose Onslaught must think the same. Or have you decided that seducing my Decepticons is your best course of action?”   
  
Optimus coughs, his faceplate turning red. Seducing?! Outrage bubbles up inside of him but all he can manage is a splutter. And he isn't even sure what to characterize that look as. Is Megatron disapproving? Is he amused? Is he angry? Is he looking for a reaction?   
  
Optimus doesn't know Megatron well enough to guess.   
  
“I am a prisoner,” he manages to grit out, hands balling into fists.   
  
Megatron stares at him, the distance between them no greater than the length of his arm, but he doesn't make a grab for Optimus again. “That could change.”   
  
“I'm not joining the Decepticons!” Optimus snaps and resists the urge to stomp his stabilizer as he'd witnessed Sari do on more than one occasion.   
  
“Your loyalty is admirable, if not foolish. Why give your allegiance to a faction that has cast you aside?”   
  
Anger flushes through him, chasing out the indignation. He ignores the shards of ice gathering in his tanks, all the things he's asked himself in the dead of night. Loyalty should not be so easily abandoned.  
  
“I am one mech,” Optimus says hotly. “I can't expect the Autobots to sacrifice everything to rescue me. There are greater concerns and I'm--”  
  
“-- not worth the effort?” Megatron finishes and the dark cast returns to his optics, and closes the distance between them in one stride, fishing something out of a side panel. “You underestimate your value, Optimus, as poorly as the Autobots do.” He holds his hand out, a datacube pinched between two fingers.   
  
Optimus gaze flicks between Megatron's face and the presented cube. “What is that?”  
  
“Proof.” Megatron's tone softens. “The Autobots are the ones who aren't worth it, Optimus. They may try to dismiss you, but I am not going to make that mistake.”   
  
Optimus narrows his optics, but what does it hurt? He takes the cube. Might as well see what lies Megatron is trying to weave now.   
  
“I'm not going to change my mind no matter what is on here,” Optimus says.   
  
“We'll see.” Megatron gives him another long look and then turns, clearly dismissing Optimus and the conversation.   
  
Optimus gnaws on his bottom lip, unsure whether he's irritated, angry, or exasperated. As it is, Megatron is almost out the door by the time he gathers himself enough to ask something that's been nagging at him for days.   
  
“Megatron.” He might as well take the chance.   
  
The Decepticon leader pauses, half-turning toward Optimus. It is all the gesture to continue that he's going to get. And maybe he's feeling charitable enough to give Optimus an answer. This particular question had been bouncing around his helm since the last time they'd had a discussion.   
  
“How did you survive?” he asks and then rephrases because that could mean any number of things. “On Earth. How did you online again?”   
  
And Megatron gives him one of those sharp denta smiles, full of dark and dirty things that carry over into Optimus' recharge.   
  
“The human child's key,” he says, and he quits the room, leaving Optimus to flounder as he digests that bit of information.   
  
Megatron could have been lying, Optimus reasons. But it's equally impossible to think that Professor Sumdac had somehow learned enough about Cybertronian biology to both fix Megatron and bring him out of what had to be a permanent stasis lock. Especially considering how long Megatron had been trapped in that state.   
  
It is too much to be a mere coincidence.   
  
What that means, however, Optimus isn't sure. Because he knows Sari wouldn't have chosen to revive Megatron on her own. But her key did have the odd habit of reacting to things of its own accord, almost as though it is ruled by a sentient energy.   
  
Optimus sighs and looks down at the datacube, turning it over and over in his fingers. He's half-afraid of what is on it. Truth or lie? How will he know the difference?   
  
He had thought that his presence on this warship could not get any more complicated. Clearly, he was wrong.   
  


****


	15. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron is always watching and Onslaught pays for taking liberties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dellessa's April flash fiction prompt of Megatron/Optimus, stalking

There is no such thing as privacy on a Decepticon warship. Megatron does not feel guilty as he watches Optimus in his room. The Autobot is a prisoner after all and if not watched in his assigned quarters, he would have been under observation in his cell. But nevertheless, something always nags at him whenever Megatron pulls up the visual feed.   
  
It isn't as though he spends every moment watching the Prime. But Optimus' behavior does give him a few clues as to how best to approach him.   
  
Today's viewing has an important purpose. Because Megatron had given Optimus a datacube and whether or not the Prime views it is key to Optimus' future.   
  
Curiosity ensures that Optimus will at least look at the information. Whether or not he believes it, is the true challenge.   
  
Megatron watches as Optimus curls on his berth and stares at the datacube. He turns it over and over in his fingers, examining it from all angles. His reluctance is understandable. He probably fears a virus, not that Megatron needs such a cheap means of victory. If he'd wanted a mindless drone, he'd have turned Optimus over to Trepan long before now.   
  
Finally, Optimus seems to make a choice. He pops a panel in his forearm and inserts the tiny cube, accessing the information. He could have used the console but for some reason, he does not. It is curious, but not a concern.   
  
The information contained will be an even more unpleasant surprise now that he views it with direct access. Megatron himself had been shocked to learn much of it.   
  
After learning that Optimus had never been in the Elite Guard and poking more into the Prime's history, Megatron had made it a personal mission to find as much as possible about Optimus. He wanted to know why Ultra Magnus would abandon one of his precious Primes and all but exile him. Especially given the effort he'd put forth to reclaim Rodimus, the one Strika had taken.   
  
The Magnus' Autobots failed, of course, and now Megatron has even more Autobot prisoners, but the fact remains that Ultra Magnus tried to reclaim Rodimus but had done nothing about Optimus' plight. Instead, he'd disbanded Optimus' team, sent them to different corners of Cybertron, and now his agents crawl all over Earth, looking for the pieces of the Allspark Ultra had not bothered to protect the first time around.   
  
It is all so baffling.   
  
Ultra Magnus had not tried to aid Optimus after the disastrous event that led to Elita One's demise. But he'd pulled strings to get Optimus a small team of miscreants and a rundown shuttle, only to then banish Optimus to the furthest reaches of Autobot space. And Optimus had taken his punishment like the good soldier he was, his own guilt a more effective castigation than any words Ultra Magnus could have spoken.   
  
Sentinel, meanwhile, has climbed quickly through the ranks until it became known that he is Ultra's favored Prime and one of several considered a possible successor to the title of Magnus. Rodimus, for that matter, is another one of those considered. 'The Chosen One' they call the flame-painted Prime.  
  
Megatron snorts. Chosen, his aft. Rodimus hadn't put up much of a fight against Strika. Optimus had done far better and he'd never completed his training.   
  
All of this means that there is a reason Ultra Magnus wants to be rid of Optimus, but doesn't want to kill him. Killing, of course, isn't the Autobot way. But if they can somehow keep Optimus cowed and still useful, that is more their modus operandi, as the humans would say.   
  
It took digging. It took a lot of digging, delving into records that had been double and triple-sealed. There was bribery and blackmail and much hacking on Shockwave's part before Megatron could find some kind of information that wasn't a blatant lie.   
  
What he found disturbed him.   
  
Optimus is one of several protoforms who had originally been sparked as Decepticons. Which means, physically, Optimus is old, older than the first war. But he'd only been brought online after the end of the war, part of a series of protoforms the Autobots had kept in reserve and were forced to bring into service after Megatron had taken the protoforms they'd earmarked for eventual inclusion in the Elite Guard.   
  
Megatron had not known those protoforms existed otherwise he would have rescued them as well. They would not become cannon fodder like the ones he'd had Lockdown take from Yoketron.   
  
Optimus is not the only one either, there are others scattered throughout the Autobot population. Stripped of their original, military coding and replaced by a preferable, more civilian Autobot coding. All of these mechs have been kept under observation. Most of them have blended just fine into the population, usually taking up roles as lawkeepers or laborers. Some have joined the Autobot Elite Guard, albeit none of them have been allowed command stations.   
  
Fewer still have been executed under what Megatron suspects are false accusations and planted evidence. If Optimus had not had such a heavy well of personal guilt, that might have been his fate. But the damned fool is so humble that it may very well have saved his spark.   
  
Of course the Autobots would make no attempt to retrieve him. They have already written him off as a loss. Whether Optimus joins the Decepticons or not, he is already considered a traitor to the Autobots. He has nowhere to return.   
  
No wonder Optimus' instincts are so on point. He has the frame of a Decepticon! Albeit one that has been stripped down to better fit into the Autobot aesthetic.   
  
The truth disturbs Megatron, but it also convinces him. Optimus belongs here, at his side. He deserves to be the leader the Autobots won't allow him to become.   
  
There werew many things Megatron expected to find that could explain Ultra Magnus' behavior toward Optimus, but this truth had not been one of them. But he has made mental note of the other Autobots, the ones who also belong with their Decepticon brethren. He's ordered Shockwave to discreetly contact them, see if there is anything left of that greatness within them.   
  
On screen, Optimus must have finished skimming the database because he suddenly jerks, sitting up straight. He fumbles the cube from his port and he glares at it in great offense. His hands shake as he stares at it, hot enough to burn. His face goes through a series of expressions, disbelief mixed with fury mixed with outrage, and then he jerks his arm, the datacube flying across the room. It hits the opposing wall, shattering into pieces.   
  
Optimus' hands clench into fists. He stares after it, and then he curls into himself on the berth, burying his helm in his arms.   
  
A pang of something ripples through Megatron's spark. He can sympathize. There is no comfort, no feeling quite like realizing you've been betrayed by everything you ever trusted.   
  
Megatron watches Optimus for a few minutes more before he decides to leave the Autobot to his grief. He shuts off the feed and turns his attention to the other issue that needs handling. Optimus' reaction to the cube is far more pressing, but now, there is someone else who requires his attention.   
  
Megatron swivels his chair around, bracing his elbows on the arm of it, and lacing his fingers together. He stares at the mech kneeling on his floor, attempting to look small and failing. Onslaught has planted something like apology on his faceplate, but Megatron is not fooled.  
  
“I do not like repeating myself,” Megatron says, unsurprised when Onslaught meets his gaze evenly. “I seem to remember telling you to keep your hands to yourself.”   
  
“Training is a bit hard to do if I can't touch the Prime.”   
  
Megatron is off his chair, and across the floor before the last word leaves Onslaught's vocalizer. He backhands Onslaught, taking no small satisfaction in the cracking of the mech's optical visor. That petulantly condescending tone is unacceptable.   
  
Onslaught's helm rolls with the blow. His frame rocks, but he doesn't fall. He slowly turns back toward Megatron, one optic glaring balefully at him from behind the fractured transsteel.  
  
“This was, as I recall, your idea, my lord,” Onslaught snaps.  
  
“The plan was to gain his trust, not an invitation to his berth,” Megatron hisses, looming over the kneeling mech.   
  
Onslaught is and has always been a source of frustration for Megatron. He is useful, one of the best strategists Megatron has ever used, but he does not bear the same loyalty to Megatron or the cause that Strika does. He also has a weakness for Autobots that makes him more susceptible to their charms.   
  
And he'd been foolish enough to let one of them convince him to try and lead a mutiny against Megatron. He also suspects that Starscream had a hand in it, but couldn't find any proof. Which is why Starscream escaped punishment and Onslaught's team had been dispersed to opposite corners of Decepticon territory.   
  
Swindle had taken it upon himself to desert completely. Only he never called it that because, as he claimed, he was a merchant. He followed the money, not the cause.   
  
“Of course not, that was a charming bonus,” Onslaught retorts.   
  
Megatron's engine revs with warning. Onslaught clamps his mouth shut, but there's no submission in his frame. If anything, he's even more stubborn.   
  
Megatron draws himself up straight. “I am finding myself struggling to justify your continued functioning, Onslaught. You may be less trouble to me offline.”   
  
“And how, my lord, will you explain my sudden absence to your pet Autobot.” Onslaught tilts his helm, something calculating behind that baleful stare. “I suspect he'd frown upon my death no matter how you spin it. Autobots tend to care about that sort of thing.”   
  
Megatron frowns. Much as it pains him to admit, Onslaught is correct. Right now, with Optimus no doubt teetering on the edge of his loyalty, Megatron does not need something that might tip him in the wrong direction. Optimus will not understand the delicate balance of Decepticon politics, and there is too much complicated history for him to explain in such a way for Optimus to understand. Nor can Megatron be certain Optimus will both listen and believe.   
  
He narrows his optics. “Do you actually think the Prime will be more inclined to join you?”   
  
“I am only performing as my lord and master commands,” Onslaught says, not at all answering the question. “I am gaining the Autobot's trust.”   
  
Megatron grinds his denta.   
  
“You might also keep in mind, Lord Megatron, that Optimus is free to make whatever choices he wishes to make,” Onslaught continues, something in his tone sly and condescending. “And who am I to deny a lonely mech some comfort in these dark times.”   
  
Anger swells up within Megatron and he strikes Onslaught again. The sound of his knuckles striking across Onslaught's faceplate eases the fury, but only by a fraction. Looking down at the commander's defiant stare makes him bristle. He should have killed Onslaught at the first betrayal. If not for that damned Autobot...  
  
Megatron clenches his denta.   
  
There is nothing he can do that won't sabotage his current efforts with Optimus. Megatron would have to wait to be rid of Onslaught until Optimus and Cybertron belonged to him.   
  
Worse that Onslaught knows it. Worse still that Megatron could beat him into so much scrap, and Optimus would find out and offer the commander sympathy.   
  
The very taste of it is vile on Megatron's glossa.   
  
Very well. Onslaught has just become Strika's problem. Optimus has other friends and Megatron is certain there's a way he can spin this that won't upset the Prime.   
  
“Return to your quarters,” Megatron says, spinning on a heel away from the commander, who is now radiating confusion. “Pack your belongings.”   
  
“Beg pardon?”   
  
He lowers himself back to his chair. “You're leaving. Strika has need of another commander and I've decided to offer her you.”   
  
Onslaught looks up, a mixture of surprise and poorly hidden pleasure in his expression. Megatron lets him linger in it for a moment before he adds, “I will, of course, be transferring Swindle here.”   
  
The satisfaction of watching that happiness melt to anger and then a surly disdain is almost as good as giving Onslaught a thrashing.   
  
Maybe next time Onslaught will think twice about touching what doesn't belong to him.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was most nervous about this chapter because this series was only ever meant to be not-serious, but then it grew plot, and here is the plot, and yeah. There it goes.
> 
> Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated. I finally know where this is going and I have the next five chapters mapped out, all leading up to the dun-dun-dun, end of part one. Yep. This is now, at the very least, a two stage fic. Primus help me.


	16. Hard Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torn after recent revelations, Optimus gets advice from an unexpected place.

Megatron is exactly where Optimus expects him to be. And with recent knowledge still burning through his processor, Optimus has no qualms on barging in on the Decepticon leader. Megatron hasn't killed him yet, obviously wants him here, and right now, it would almost be a mercy if Megatron does shoot him.   
  
At least then he won't be tense wondering if Megatron's going to do it or not.   
  
But Megatron doesn't. He simply looks up when Optimus enters and gestures to the empty seat in front of his desk. The monitor behind him is dark. Optimus had interrupted nothing. Pity.   
  
Optimus glares as he drops into the offered chair. He crosses his arms over his chest, just waiting for some self-aggrandizing trash to come spilling out of Megatron's mouth.   
  
Megatron puts down his stylus and leans back in his chair. “You must have questions,” he says.   
  
Optimus twitches. “Questions,” he repeats flatly. “That's what you're going to lead with.”   
  
“I considered 'I told you so' but felt it was beneath both of us.” Megatron gestures toward him. “I assume you read the information that I provided.”   
  
“It's not going to make me defect,” Optimus snaps, tension gripping him inside and out. “No matter how you think my origins define me. I'm still an Autobot.”   
  
“Of course you are,” Megatron says casually, as though he hadn't considered otherwise. “But I do think you had a right to know the truth. I won't pretend, however, that I don't see it as proof.”  
  
“Proof,” Optimus repeats again.   
  
Megatron's lips pull into a slow, careful smile. His denta seem especially sharp. “That you've always been one of us.”   
  
There it goes again, a ripple of anger and indignation and beneath it all, where he doesn't want to admit, the fear. That he doesn't belong with the Autobots. That he never has. Because he's not a hero, he's not good enough, and when is he going to learn that all he'll ever be is a cog?  
  
Worse in it all is that Optimus knows Megatron isn't lying. The data hadn't been falsified. He'd recognized all of the originator stamps on it. He'd thought, at first, that maybe it had been doctored. That Megatron had somehow found a way to manipulate the system, transmit data that didn't actually exist.   
  
Until he realized that it all makes a scary sort of sense. And then he'd been horrified, at himself mostly, for daring to believe in the words of a Decepticon.   
  
Optimus scrubs his hands down his thigh plating. “I'm not like you,” he bites out and his gaze wanders away from Megatron, to the stacks of datapads on the warlord's desk, where it is safer. “I'm nothing like any of you.”   
  
“Say it enough times and you may even convince yourself,” Megatron says, more a murmur. His chair creaks as he leans forward, toward Optimus. “Why are you an Autobot?”   
  
Optimus cycles his optics. “What?”   
  
Megatron plants his elbows on his desk and laces his fingers together. Only then does Optimus notice he's not even bearing his cannon.   
  
“Why are you an Autobot?” Megatron asks, in all seriousness. “What choice did you make that encourages you to be so certain that you do not want to join me?”   
  
Optimus stares at him. “Choice?”   
  
“You say you will never defect, that you are not one of us,” Megatron says, and there's something cutting in his gaze, that slices straight through to Optimus' spark. “What makes you so certain? When did you decide you were an Autobot? Why are you so loyal to them?”   
  
He isn't sure he understands the question. And perhaps his confusion shows on his face because Megatron continues without further prompting on Optimus' part.   
  
“You are an Autobot because it is all you've ever known. You don't think to question your orders because you have been taught to obey. And all I'm asking you is to tell me why you are so loyal to the Autobots. Why you are convinced that you'll never be anything else.”   
  
Optimus frowns. His optics narrow. “Because I'm not a murderer.”   
  
“And neither, I suppose, are the Autobots.”   
  
Optimus works his jaw. His ventilations stutter and his hands pull in and out of fists. The anger crops up again, and it leaks into his field before he can fully rein it in.   
  
“I know they aren't perfect,” Optimus grits out, because that damning datacube had been proof enough. “But that's not enough reason to side with someone like you.”   
  
“Like me?” Now Megatron is amused as he leans back, making himself comfortable. “Tell me, Autobot, what am I?”   
  
That's a trap. One Optimus isn't walking into.   
  
He thrusts himself to his pedes and Megatron doesn't so much as flinch. Neither does he look surprised. He only stares evenly at Optimus as though waiting.   
  
“You are the mech who took me prisoner and then allowed me free in some sort of sick game that I'm tired of playing,” Optimus hisses. “I know you don't respect me, but you could at least give me the courtesy of remembering that I'm not stupid.”   
  
He spins on a heel strut and stalks toward the door. His backplates rustle, clamping down, half-expecting the blast to the back. Surely Megatron will not condone anyone talking to him like that, much less a loathed Autobot.   
  
“Optimus.”   
  
The door slides open in front of him and Optimus would have gone through it, were it not for rarity of Megatron calling him by name rather than by title. He half-turns, acknowledging Megatron, but refusing to meet his optics.  
  
“We are taking Cybertron back in three orns. It is your choice where you stand when the curtain falls.”   
  
Optimus' fingers rap on the frame. “The Autobots will stop you,” he says curtly and he leaves before Megatron can refute him.   
  
He has a sudden and desperate urge to do some damage right now and he can't make the mistake of directing that toward Megatron. Optimus is under no illusions that he can take Megatron down in a fight, fair or otherwise, and especially not weaponless. Megatron outmasses him in every way that matters.   
  
Perhaps Onslaught will be so inclined, however. Or one of his other sparring partners, though Onslaught is preferred because he's the one who seems to bother Megatron the most.   
  
Optimus roams the hallways, seeking out all the usual haunts. Onslaught is not in his quarters or on shift. Neither is he in any of the training rooms or refueling stations.   
  
When he enters the refueling station on gamma deck for the third time, Optimus gets an answer as to why.   
  
“He's not here,” Barricade calls out to him. The smaller Decepticon currently lounges at a table nearest the door, claws spinning an empty barrel of oil.   
  
Optimus tosses him a look. “I am not blind.”   
  
Barricade shrugs, making his shoulders bounce. “Didn't say ya were. Just telling you. Onslaught's not here. As in, he's not on this ship.” He lifts his barrel and then frowns as if noticing that it's empty.   
  
Optimus' optics narrow. He gets closer to Barricade, who is among his least favorite of the Decepticons he's directly interacted with. “Where is he?”   
  
“Transferred. To _Kalis' Lament._ Strika's ship.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Barricade smirks as he lowers the barrel and starts to fiddle with it again. “If I were to guess, I'd say it's because he doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself.”  
  
Optimus' jaw drops before he can stop himself. “Who did he..?”  
  
“Are you really that naïve, Prime?” Barricade hauls himself to his pedes, swaying a little as though he's imbibed a bit of high grade. “Megatron don't like when other mechs touch his things. And Onslaught was skirting the line by getting close to you.”   
  
Optimus shakes his helm, backpedaling. “I don't know what you're talking about.”   
  
Barricade snorts and drains the last of his barrel, smacking it back onto the table. “For a mech who claims he isn't blind, you sure don't see much.” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, all four optics blinking at Optimus. “Good thing you aren't gonna be one of us. You wouldn't last ten kliks.”   
  
“Your leader seems to believe otherwise,” Optimus says. It is pointless to be offended, but there it is, rising up within him, a feeling of inadequacy.   
  
It doesn't help that his current situation is all a result of his own immense failure.   
  
Barricade rolls his shoulders dismissively, the tires setting off into a spin. “He's been wrong before.”   
  
Barricade throws a wave over his shoulder and strides out of the refueling station, meeting up with the rotary Optimus tends to see him with all the time. Grinder, he thinks is the mech's name, but he can't be sure because they haven't been introduced.   
  
Optimus drags a hand down his face and leaves the refueling station, though he goes the opposite direction from Barricade. The smaller Decepticon has never been friendly toward him. In fact, that conversation is perhaps the nicest Barricade has ever been to him. Which says a lot.   
  
To be fair, most of the Decepticons treat Optimus with a fair amount of disregard. Some hold a chilly disdain, others find him a fascinating specimen to be observed. It's arguable whether Flatline's fawning treatment is preferable. Optimus has taken to avoiding the medbay at all costs.   
  
No one ever goes to the observation deck. Optimus supposes that Decepticons have better things to do than to stare out into base. But as for Optimus? He doesn't have any duties and right now, solitude is the better course.   
  
He keys open the door to the observation deck and steps inside, only to draw up short. For once, it's not deserted, and one of the last people he would have expected to see is standing inside. She turns at the sound of the door opening, but her expression doesn't betray nearly the same amount of surprise as Optimus'.   
  
“Optimus,” she purrs, tilting her helm toward him. “Isn't this fortuitous? And here I thought I'd have to track you down.”   
  
Optimus steps further onto the deck as the door slid shut behind him. “I didn't know you were onboard,” he says. He instantly feels the lack of his weaponry and wonders if any of his new training will help keep him alive.   
  
“Recently onboard,” she corrects and grins at him with a mouthful of fanged denta. “Prisoner transfer.”  
  
Optimus' orbital ridge flattens. “Prisoner,” he repeats only to startle. “Autobot prisoners?” Had Megatron brought Rodimus and his team onboard this ship? For what purpose?  
  
Blackarachnia flicks one of her hands in a dismissive pattern. “Hah. He wishes he were an Autobot. That might actually make Megatron more merciful.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“Well, I think if Megatron wanted you to know, he would have told you.” Blackarachnia's grin widens as she struts around him in a circle, her tone thoughtful. “So, Optimus, you're a Decepticon now.”   
  
“No!” Optimus grimaces as the denial comes out a lot more forcefully than he intended. He ex-vents. “I mean... yes. I mean... frag, I don't know.” His shoulders slump.   
  
“Wow. And I thought I had problems.” Blackarachnia pauses directly in front of him, her gaze raking him up and down.   
  
“Yeah.” Optimus throws himself into one of the benches, well aware that he appears like a petulant new-spark. “I thought you were still on Earth.”   
  
Blackarachnia leans against the back of the bench, her purr traveling straight to his audial and making him shiver. “Yes, well, Strika presented better opportunity.”   
  
“And then she sent you here.”   
  
“I volunteered. Heard a little rumor about Megatron's new project and had to see for myself.” Her finger tickles at his audial and Optimus flinches away from her. She smirks. “And what do you know, the rumors are true.”   
  
He shakes his helm. “It's not like that.”   
  
“Isn't it?” Her finger drags up his shoulder, pulling a burr of metal on metal. “Any other Autobot would find himself in chains and in a cell. Or dead. And yet here you are, wandering free through his warship.”   
  
She has a point, as little as Optimus doesn't want to admit it. He crosses his arms and angles his shoulders away from her. “He seems to think he can convince me to change sides.”   
  
“Is it working?”   
  
Optimus frowns and stares into the distance. He doesn't know if he can answer that question honestly or not. Because up until two days ago, he would have swore upon his very spark that he would never betray the Autobots and join the Deepticons. But up until two days ago, he'd been under the mistaken impression that he was Autobot through and through.   
  
“Oh, I know that brooding face. I remember that brooding face.” Blackarachnia circles around the bench and plops down next to him, crossing her legs. “Talk to me, Optimus. For old times sake.”   
  
He gives her a sour look. “You tried to kill Sari.”   
  
Her hand flicks dismissively. “Collateral damage. She had something I needed.”   
  
“Wanted,” Optimus corrects.  
  
She pokes him in the side, right through a seam bared by his crossed arms. He quickly jerks them back down as she laughs at him.   
  
“Are you going to argue semantics with me all day? Because it's not going to give you the answers you're looking for.” She tilts her helm down at him and he's given the impression her optics are seeing right through him.   
  
Some things don't change, even when the rest of the world has.   
  
She bumps shoulders with him, her field a staticky whirl of unpleasant emotion and sensation. With her organic half comes a more difficult time reading her. It makes Optimus' processor ache to try.   
  
“Come on, Optimus. Didn't we use to be close?”   
  
“Until I let you die.”   
  
Blackarachnia examines her talons, the overhead lighting catching the sharp edges. “Mmm. Yes. There was that.” She glances at him. “You left me to die, I turned into this hideous creature, and joined the Decepticons. Funny how life turns out, isn't it? Because here you are and here I am, and we're both with the Decepticons.”   
  
“I'm not--” Optimus bites off, frustration eating into his field.   
  
“Aren't you?”   
  
Optimus turns his helm away from her and rubs a hand down his face. “I'm not an Autobot,” he admits.   
  
“I gathered that much.”   
  
“No, I mean. I'm not... Autobot.” He gestures toward himself, his frame, encapsulating everything he is beneath the armor and behind his spark. “Deep down, beneath the paint, I was supposed to be a Decepticon.”   
  
Her stabilizers tip-tap on the floor. “Sorry, Optimus, but that doesn't make any sense.”   
  
“I know,” Optimus groans and he tilts forward, his elbows grinding on his knees. “But it also does. I mean, I always felt something wasn't right. But I could never figure out what it was.”   
  
“Actually, you might have a point.”   
  
He looks at her and finds Blackarachnia tapping one elegant talon against her chin. “You always asked questions. Our instructors were always shushing you.”   
  
“I remember.”   
  
She points at him. “So you're a Decepticon.”   
  
“I'm not! I'm an Autobot!” Optimus leaps to his stabilizers, pacing as the agitation settles into his spark. “Whatever my protoform was shouldn't matter.”   
  
Blackarachnia shrugs. “Okay then. You're an Autobot.”   
  
“It's not that simple!”  
  
“Isn't it?”   
  
“Nothing ever is.”   
  
She laughs, and it's not a pleasant sound. “You're telling me.”   
  
Shame crowds out the frustration. Optimus spins on a heel and stops, his helm bowed. His ventilations are ragged and he shouldn't be this worked up over a small detail, but he is. Because that small detail has wrecked merry havoc over his entire existence!   
  
He looks at Blackarachnia, comfortably sprawled over the bench now that he's vacated it. “Why did you join the Decepticons?”  
  
Her optics narrow. “Because I couldn't be me and be an Autobot.” Her tone is flippant but Optimus isn't fooled.   
  
He's more than aware of Sentinel's fear of organics and knows that same fear is shared by a good portion of Cybertronian mecha.   
  
“And at least here, I don't have to pretend,” Blackarachnia adds.   
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“Have you even looked at the Decepticons?” Blackarachnia makes a broad gesture, encapsulating the entire ship. “How many of them have you seen that look alike?”   
  
“Not many,” Optimus admits. Not that he's seen the entirety of the Decepticon armada. In fact, the closest he's seen to duplicates are Starscream's clones.   
  
“Exactly. They'll take anyone who's willing to work, to be useful, no matter how small. The Autobots? If you don't fit in their mold, if you're a maladjusted cog, you're tossed aside.”  
  
“That's not true.”   
  
Blackarachnia snorts. “Of course it is. You just never saw it. You never wanted to see it.” She rises to her stabilizers and plants her hands on her hips. “That's your problem, Optimus. You see too much of the good in people. And you ask all the wrong questions.”   
  
“What should I be asking?”   
  
She looks at him and he almost sees pity in her optics, which is an abrupt turnaround. “I never thought I'd see the day you were more lost than I am.” She shakes her helm. “I can't solve this for you, Optimus.”   
  
He watches her go, leaving him alone on the observation deck. Optimus sighs and slumps back into the bench, tilting his helm back. The stars are visible through the windscreen above him, rushing by in a rapid pace toward their destination.   
  
Cybertron. And whatever Megatron's end game is.   
  
Optimus doesn't have long to make his choice.   
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the cast expands. This is my first time writing Blackarachnia so my apologies if I completely mangled her character. I had fun writing her though. So hopefully I nailed her.
> 
> Slowly but surely getting a hold on where this story is going. All the background anyway. Megatron and Optimus aren't cooperating in figuring out when they are going to start clanging, but I hold out hope for them.
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	17. Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus finally asks what Megatron wants from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dellessa's flash fiction prompt of Megatron/Optimus, needy

 

He's spending more time than he cares to spend in communications, but with them speeding toward Cybertron, it is a necessary evil. He is so close to reclaiming his home that Megatron can almost taste it, sweet like victory on his glossa. Everything is going perfectly to plan, without a single hiccup to be found.   
  
Even, dare he say, Optimus' progress. Megatron is most pleased with that development, though there is a particular anger that rises every time he thinks of the Decepticon protoforms that had been turned into Autobot minions. Ultra Magnus will pay for that.   
  
Just as soon as Megatron reclaims Cybertron.   
  
“And injuries?”   
  
“None reported,” Turmoil replies, sounding bored. He, of all Megatron's commanders, is nearly the least respectful, only a step above Onslaught on account of the fact he's never tried to overthrow Megatron with Starscream's assistance.   
  
“A few minor scrapes, but nothing requiring medical attention. Autobots weren't so lucky.” Turmoil grins, baring a row of sharpened denta that makes many uneasy, including no few Decepticons.   
  
Megatron has heard rumors of what Turmoil gets up to in his spare time. But as no one has made an official complaint, he hasn't looked too deeply into it. And there is the small matter of him being out of commission for five decades and only recently returned. He'll have to deal with Turmoil later.   
  
“Survivors?” Megatron asks.   
  
“None,” Turmoil replies with far too much relish.   
  
Megatron scrapes a palm down his face. “Did you even try to take prisoners?”   
  
“I didn't see the point. I've no use for Autobots. Well, most of them at any rate. They are, occasionally, worth some entertainment. But this Prime was not.” Turmoil's vents huff in derision. “Far too noble for my tastes.”   
  
“If we slaughter every Autobot we defeat, it will only be that much harder to take Cybertron without being forced to execute half the population,” Megatron says, something he's quite certain he's told Turmoil before. “So unless you want to reformat into a data clerk or an accountant, take prisoners.”  
  
The dark mech rolls his optics and sags in the vid-screen. “Yes, my lord. I will keep that in mind for future endeavors. It is, sadly, too late for Hot Spot Prime and his team.”   
  
Megatron's helm begins to ache. “Secure the space bridge and await my orders to attack,” he says, biting back a frustrated ex-vent. “You received Shockwave's script regarding Autobot communications?”  
  
“Yes and I have passed it on to my CO.” Turmoil sounds bored and he shifts his weight, chair squeaking beneath his bulk. “But speaking of Autobots, if I might make a request.”   
  
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “You did not manage to acquire any prisoners for me, Turmoil. What makes you think you've earned one?”  
  
“I've gained control of this space bridge. Isn't that enough?”   
  
Insubordinate. Every last one of them. Megatron's field flickers with irritation but he reins it in.   
  
“Make your case, Turmoil. I shall consider whether or not I'm feeling generous.”   
  
Turmoil grins and leans forward, eagerness spelled across his faceplate. “When we take back Cybertron, I want Deadlock.”   
  
Megatron frowns. “Who?” He doesn't recognize the name, but there is something familiar about it. He makes a mental note to look into this Deadlock.   
  
Turmoil snorts. “He's an Autobot. Calls himself Drift now. Used to be my second until he defected. And we have a little score to settle.”   
  
“I see.”   
  
Megatron is almost willing to grant Turmoil that boon because if there's one thing he despises it is a mech who has turned away from the Decepticon cause. But given the rumors regarding Turmoil's track record, perhaps there is more to this situation than meets the optic. He is willing, for the moment, to give this Deadlock a chance to explain himself.   
  
“I will consider your request,” Megatron says as he leans against the desk edge, clasping his hands in front of his mouth. “After all, rewards are certainly due those who are successful in my service.” Though he isn't about to reward any of his Decepticons with Autobot slaves.   
  
That would defeat the purpose of convincing Optimus to defect to his side to help win the Autobot's favor. Oh, fear would cow the Autobots for a while, but eventually, they will do what Megatron has done, rise up and destroy their oppressors. Megatron wants to reclaim Cybertron and keep it, not embroil the planet in another war.   
  
Turmoil tilts his helm, one functional optic gleaming at him. Come to think of it, Turmoil had been rather evasive when Megatron inquired about how he received the injury. And why he never saw fit to have it repaired.   
  
“I have always been nothing if not--”  
  
A relentless pinging at Megatron's door interrupts whatever self-glorious nonsense Turmoil had been about to spew. Megatron's optics narrow and he shifts his gaze to the security feed, finding that the little Prime is outside his door. He looks frazzled, but also determined.   
  
Perhaps he has come to deliver good news.   
  
Megatron smirks and slides his gaze back toward Turmoil.   
  
“Wait for my signal,” Megatron says, excitement daring to stir within his spark. “I'll contact you when the times comes.”   
  
He cuts the feed before Turmoil can protest and turns to face the door. He sends the signal for it to open and somehow manages to smooth the smirk from his face before Optimus Prime strides inside.   
  
The Autobot is probably trying to mask his emotions, but the optics give him away. There's a grim determination present, as though he's come to a decision and no one will convince him away from it. Well. Megatron will see about that.   
  
“Optimus, welcome,” Megatron says and gestures to the empty chair. “Please, have a seat. What can I do for you today?”  
  
“Don't play me for a fool,” Optimus bites out as he lowers himself to the chair. His hands rest on his thighs as he sits to attention, as though he's been called before a tribunal. “I want to know what your endgame is.”   
  
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “The reclamation of Cybertron. I thought I had made that abundantly clear.”   
  
“And the slaughter of the Autobots, too, no doubt.” Optimus is almost aggressive, as though he's angling for a fight. Perhaps trying to prove to himself that he is Autobot no matter his origin.   
  
Megatron leans back in his chair. “When have I ever professed such an intention?”   
  
Optimus' mouth opens as though ready to respond with a sharp retort, only to close again. He looks disgruntled. He folds his arms and leans back in his chair.   
  
“It's pretty clear you don't like Autobots.”   
  
“In general, yes.” Megatron let a slow smile creep over his lips. “But I've come to recognize the value of certain individuals.” He gives Optimus a long, lingering look, leaving no room for confusion as to who he meant.   
  
Optimus' optics widen. He twitches. “Then what are you planning?” he demands, but there's a touch of color on his faceplate now.   
  
“The liberation of Cybertron,” Megatron replies. At this point, there's little Optimus can do to screw up his plans, even if he did somehow become an expert computer hacker that could contact the Autobots and be believed. “And while, yes, some Autobots may die in the process, my goal is to regain control and keep it. Not wipe the planet clean. And that, dear Optimus, is where you come in.”   
  
Optimus' frown deepens. “Explain.”   
  
Any other mech and Megatron would have backhanded him for what is essentially an order. But he can be forgiven. He is this close. Megatron is sure of it. Optimus is teetering on the edge of Megatron's victory. All he needs is a little push.   
  
“Starscream is dead,” Megatron says. “And I need a second in command. One the Autobots will trust.”   
  
Optimus scoffs. “A mech who is all but half-Decepticon is an Autobot they'll trust.”  
  
“They don't know what you are. No one has to know. It's no one's business but yours.”   
  
Optimus presses his lips together and looks away, studying the wall behind Megatron with forced intent. “It would be a title in name only. I wouldn't have any influence.”   
  
“Who says?”   
  
Optimus' field spikes and he's too slow to reel it in, Megatron catching a glimpse of surprise and anger and disquiet.   
  
“You would have an Autobot share your throne,” Optimus says slowly and his helm inches back toward Megatron.   
  
“Advisor,” Megatron corrects. “And no. But I would have you.”   
  
Optimus startles, physically jerking. His hands scrub down his thighs, clutching on his knees.   
  
Megatron wonders if Optimus has ever heard someone say that to him before. Buried beneath Optimus' bravado is a streak of self-loathing, his self-confidence beaten down, no doubt by what happened to his schoolmate and the punishment that followed.   
  
“I do believe that between you and I, we can make a change for the better,” Megatron says as he rises to his pedes and almost smirks as Optimus' optics follow him. The mix of suspicion and wariness is almost intoxicating.   
  
He circles around his desk, keeping his gaze locked with Optimus'. “I need Autobots to be civilians as much as they need Decepticons to be soldiers. And if there are any that wish to change their future, we can arrange it. That is my dream, Optimus Prime. A Cybertron where every mech has the freedom to pursue his spark rather than his frame. Is that acceptable to you?”   
  
Optimus' intake works. “Lofty goals,” he says, after an audible reboot of his vocalizer. “You almost sound like an idealist.”   
  
“Almost?” Megatron repeats.   
  
Optimus stares at his hands before dragging his optics slowly back to Megatron's face. “Your hands are a little too stained to give you that pass.”   
  
If Optimus thinks that an insult, he is sorely mistaken. Megatron laughs and it's hard to keep the mockery from it.   
  
“Oh, little Prime, there is so much you do not know about what it means to be a Decepticon. If there is energon on my hands, it is because your precious Autobots ensured I would put it there.”   
  
Megatron shakes his helm and leans his hip against his desk, looking down at Optimus. “I want a better Cybertron and I believe you are the mech who can help me obtain it. And so I ask again, Optimus, there is a place for you at my side. If you want it.”   
  
Blue optics widen. “That's not...” He pauses, cycles a ventilation, and straightens his shoulder. “And if I say no? Is it a choice between this or death?”  
  
“No. Though you understand I can no longer let you roam my ship freely. You will be safely detained until I have retaken Cybertron, after which I will reevaluate your use. The same as with all the other Autobots I have in custody.” Megatron issues his most charming smile, one that had won him the loyalty of countless Decepticons.   
  
His words do little to reassure the suspicious Prime.   
  
Optimus does, however, rise to his pedes, keeping a fair distance between them. “Fine,” he says. “I'll... consider it.” He looks away, gnawing on his bottom lipplate. “You'll have your answer tomorrow.”   
  
“I'll look forward to it with bated breath,” Megatron purrs.   
  
Optimus' field spikes with surprise and his faceplate heats, an embarrassed reaction that shouldn't be as alluring as it is. He stammers something about needing some time to himself and all but flees, taking the enticing feel of his field with him.   
  
Megatron watches him go with bemusement and shakes his helm. He is beginning to see what might have attracted Onslaught to Autobots in the first place. Though it is still a wonder. How does one even berth something that small without causing damage?   
  
Megatron returns to his desk and the stacks of reports awaiting him, including missives from every one of his commanders and an updated timeline from Shockwave. They are speeding ever closer to Cybertron with Ultra Magnus and his fool of a council none the wiser.   
  
Come this time next week, Megatron will finally set pede on his home planet again, and cycle familiar atmosphere through his vents.   
  
He'll be home.   
  


****


	18. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus makes his choice and Megatron is more than a little pleased with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dellessa's Flash Fiction Friday prompt of Megatron/Optimus, decisions

  
He is less surprised with what Megatron wants from him than Optimus would have expected. It has been pretty clear that Megatron intends to turn him into a Decepticon. What was less clear is how.   
  
Now Optimus knows. And he has a choice to make. Would he rather find himself a genuine prisoner in the Decepticon brig, reassured of his survival for the oncoming battle? Or would he rather take Megatron's offer and work alongside him?   
  
Are the tattered remains of his Decepticon coding enough to warrant that betrayal? Does he deny his own loyalty because the Autobots had picked the rational course of action in leaving him to his fate? Is a Cybertron under the control of the Decepticons any better or worse?   
  
Well, of course it's worse, Optimus scoffs to think. The Autobots aren't monsters. At worse he can accuse them of being too practical. Waste not, want not, yes?  
  
The thought makes him a little ill. Optimus works his intake, hoping to quell the rolling nausea in his tanks.   
  
It should not upset him as much as it does.   
  
Practicality wins. The Decepticons stole Autobot protoforms. Why shouldn't the Autobots make use of the sparks and protoforms they had left?  
  
Optimus returns to the observation deck to think. Blackarachnia is not around and perhaps it is better that way. He does not need anyone to influence his decision. He needs to make it for himself.   
  
Even if he suspects he already knows what his answer we'll be.   
  
He can't do anything from a prison cell. He doesn't want to be a Decepticon, but he wants to be a prisoner even less. He doesn't want to be executed. At least if he is by Megatron's side, he may perhaps be able to influence Megatron. Or sneak away to warn the Autobots. Or undermine the Decepticons from the inside out.   
  
He could be useful. Effective. He doesn't have to be Megatron's mindless minion.   
  
Optimus lowers himself to the bench and clasps his hands together, bracing his elbows on his knees. He stares at the floor, where someone has recently come in and scrubbed, perhaps a form of punishment detail. The scores and rust stains are gone.   
  
He thinks about his team. He worries about the others, what's happened to them. Surely the Autobots didn't leave them on Earth without a leader. Maybe Bumblebee's been transferred to the Elite Guard. Maybe Ratchet got that retirement he wanted. Prowl probably went back to his dojo. Bulkhead would have followed wherever Bumblebee went.   
  
The only way to protect them is to be in a position of power. Optimus can't do that in a cage. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of him. Ultra Magnus and Sentinel, they already believe the worst. Optimus has to do what's right for himself and for the Autobots. They might not see what he is attempting to do but he has to try.   
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation and lays back, draping a hand over his optics. It's quiet here, under the stars, but it doesn't calm his thoughts. He doesn't want to return to his room, the false prison Megatron has made for him.   
  
He recharges on the observation deck, surprisingly undisturbed. His dreams are filled with memories, Sentinel and Elita-One, Earth and Sari, Ultra Magnus' dismissal. It's all carefully crafted by his processor to remind him of the enormity of his decision and the weight of the future on his shoulders.   
  
He has to do this. He has to take this risk. He has to find the courage because there is no one else. While Optimus believes fully in the capability of the Elite Guard and Ultra Magnus to protect Cybertron, Megatron has already proved to be a cunning and resourceful opponent. And the Autobots know not what forces march against them.   
  
Optimus can't sit idly by while innocent sparks are in danger. He has to do whatever he can to protect Cybertron.   
  
Even if it means betraying the Autobots.   
  
He rises from his makeshift berth and stretches to ease the crimp in his cables. His systems ping him for energon so Optimus makes a brief stop at a nearby refueling station, curiously empty of the usual Decepticon gathering.   
  
It is unsettling.   
  
Optimus continues, expecting to find Megatron in his office, deep in conversation with one of his many generals about the upcoming attack on Cybertron. But there's no answer when Optimus presses the call button or when he knocks. The access panel gleams a baleful red which means Megatron either isn't inside or doesn't want visitors.   
  
“He's on the bridge.”   
  
Optimus' plating crawls. He turns to see Blackarachnia behind him, leaning casually against the wall, her arms crossed. He still doesn't like how easily she sneaks up on him.   
  
“How do you know that?” Optimus asks.   
  
She gives him a fanged smirk. “Maybe because I just came from there? I got my orders. I'm about to ship out.” Blackarachnia pushes herself off the wall and approaches him, something sly in her expression. “I wanted to stick around, find out what you have to say to Megatron, but duty calls. So why don't you do an old friend a favor and tell me, hmm?” The tip of one finger scratches at the underside of his jaw.   
  
Optimus tilts his helm away and her talons slips free, leaving a minor score behind. Whether intentional or not, he doesn't know.   
  
“We all have to make choices to survive, right?”   
  
Blackarachnia hums a laugh. “Yes, we do.” She backs off, at least. “Like I said, Megatron's on the bridge.” She turns away and flicks her fingers over her shoulder in a parting wave. “Call me when you get your comm codes. We can chat. It'll be just like old times.”   
  
A cold shiver drips own Optimus' backstrut. He can't even explain precisely why. It has nothing to do with her organic half, he knows. It is something else entirely.   
  
Optimus shakes it off. He has to find Megatron and if Blackarachnia hadn't lied, he has to look on the bridge. The last time Optimus had been there, he'd been in chains, expecting to be executed at any moment.   
  
This time will be quite different, so long as Megatron believes him.   
  
The hallways are oddly deserted, Optimus notices, just as the refueling station had been. Usually he passes countless Decepticons and is forced to keep to his side of the hallway. It has become a challenge to prove that he is not intimidated by the fact they are armed and much larger than him.   
  
Two Decepticons stand on either side of the bridge entrance. They are large airframes the likes of Lugnut and they stare at Optimus as he passes. Optimus feels as though he is running some kind of gauntlet even as he steps onto the bridge, doing his best to act as though he belongs there. He'll have to play the part soon enough.   
  
Megatron stands near the command console, one hand behind his back as the other flicks through something on the screen. He looks deep in thought and terribly busy. Optimus suspects he won't mind this interruption, however. Or at least he hopes not.   
  
Enacting a boldness he does not feel, Optimus strides directly toward Megatron. He notices Blitzwing and Lugnut nearby, both watching him. There are a dozen or so other Decepticons scattered around the bridge, most he does not recognize.   
  
They notice him, one by one. They turn to watch, to stare. Silence sweeps through the bridge, all murmurs of conversation ceasing, to be replaced by whispers.   
  
Optimus' plating crawls. His spark hammers in his chassis.   
  
He draws to a halt just outside of Megatron's reach. Words jumble on his glossa but don't emerge. He doesn't know what to say. How does one go about announcing that he's defecting and seeks a new badge? Is there a formal language?  
  
Megatron turns slowly, making his internal debate unnecessary. “I take it you have an answer for me,” he says, vocals carrying easily through the dead silence.   
  
“I do.” Optimus cycles a ventilation and looks Megatron in the optic. Time to lie like he's never lied before.   
  
“You're right,” Optimus says as his hands draw into slow fists at his side. “The Autobots have abandoned me. I will never be one of them. I don't want to be one of them. Not after what they did to me.” He pauses and steadies his ventilations. “I want to be a Decepticon.”   
  
Megatron stares at him. He stares long enough that Optimus is not sure that Megatron believes him. The bridge is no longer silent. Low murmuring has spread through the gathered Decepticons and not all of it is pleased.   
  
“Being a Decepticon is as much coding as it is a choice,” Megatron says at length. He looks down at Optimus. “Kneel.”   
  
Optimus' spark throbs all the harder. He hopes his anxiety is not so readily obvious in his energy field. He lowers himself to one knee, praying that this does not mean Megatron intends to separate his helm from his shoulders. Or blast out his spark.   
  
Megatron looms over him, his expression unreadable.   
  
“Are you prepared, Optimus, to take up arms against those you considered allies?” Megatron asks, his deep vocals rumbling through the room. “Are you ready to do what is necessary to reclaim Cybertron in the name of the Decepticons?”   
  
Optimus braces an arm over his knee. “I am.”   
  
Megatron's lip curls, but it is so slight that no one further away could notice it. “Are you prepared to abandon the mark you bear, in order to take another, one that you might bear with pride rather than shame?”   
  
Abandon. It is a harsh word. Optimus keeps all of his flinching internal.   
  
“I am,” he says. Keep it simple. Keep it short. Let no one see the fear in your optics.   
  
Is that not the Decepticon way?  
  
“Are you ready to accept your new brethren and cast aside the old?” Megatron asks, and surely, he's dragging it now. Surely, they don't involve these ceremonies for every mech who has ever said he wants to become a Decepticon.   
  
“Will you look upon the faces of the mechs who fight beside you and remember it is your duty to hold the line? To stand as readily defiant against the odds?”   
  
Optimus works his intake. “I am.” He meets Megatron's gaze. He holds it. He does not flinch.   
  
There was a time the very idea of Megatron chilled him to his core. He is still afraid, but he has stood against Megatron before. The sparkeater is only as terrifying as the fear you feed it.   
  
Megatron's field ripples. There is approval in it.   
  
“Then perhaps you understand the choice you are making,” Megatron says. “This unbreakable vow that is more than words.”   
  
Megatron leans down and reaches. Optimus does his best not to flinch away, even as Megatron's much larger hand cups his jaw and tilts his helm further back, baring more of Optimus' intake. The touch is gentle and warm, but it opens Optimus to the entirety of Megatron's field and he can sense the appreciation and amusement hovering within it. More than that, it makes him undeniably vulnerable.  
  
“Open your battle mask, Optimus,” Megatron says as he brushes the pad of his thumb over Optimus' covered mouth. “You are among allies now. You do not need it.”   
  
Optimus fights off the kneejerk reaction to the request and obeys. Cold air ghosts against his bare faceplate, the chill of it chased away by the warm brush of Megatron's thumb on his chin.   
  
Optimus looks up at Megatron as something akin to a smile pulls at the warlord's lips. The edges of his mouth curl up, large enough for others to see, no longer a secret shared between them. His optics are bright and approving.   
  
“Better,” Megatron murmurs. The pad of his thumb sweeps a path over the curve of Optimus' jaw. “I accept your service, Optimus,” he adds with a purr and then abruptly lets go.   
  
Megatron steps back and gestures to him with a single hand. “Now rise a Decepticon, Optimus. You are no longer Prime. You are now Commander, my right hand.”   
  
His tanks do a little flip.   
  
Optimus swallows down the upset and rises to his pedes. Megatron's hand settles on his shoulder, an irrationally heavy weight. He feels far too small standing next to Megatron. That he is barely taller than Megatron's hips has always been a point of contention. Especially given that he looks around and all of the Decepticons share the same greater mass.   
  
“We will change your brands in a moment,” Megatron says as he turns Optimus toward the command console. “First, I would like you to see where we are.”   
  
Optimus' gaze lifts to the central screen as Megatron presses a single button. There's a creak and a rattle before the shutters slide open. The intensity of the anticipation in the bridge doubles. Optimus' own ventilations stutter as he looks past everyone to the view looming in front of Megatron's warship.   
  
It's Cybertron.   
  
His optics cycle wide. Optimus takes a stumbling step forward. His ventilations come to him shallow. He barely registers the weight of Megatron's hand or the press of Megatron's field against his own.   
  
Cybertron is right there in front of them. There's a ring of Elite Guard ships surrounding the planet, a surprisingly understaffed ring. The Autobot Defense Shield glistens in the background, a last line of defense against an invasion.   
  
There's no way Megatron and his single ship can get past this.   
  
But no. Optimus turns his helm and realizes Megatron is not alone. The other monitors show an armada of Decepticon warships, large and small, arranged beside Megatron's flagship. This has to be the entirety of the Decepticon force, gathered here for one final push on Cybertron.   
  
“Do you not deserve a front row seat as we take back Cybertron?” Megatron asks.   
  
Optimus sucks in a startled ventilation. “Even if you get past the Elite Guard, how do you expect to bypass the shield?”   
  
Megatron rumbles amusement at him. “There is so very little you know, Optimus. For instance, the number of Primes it takes to deactivate the shield.”   
  
A cold settles in Optimus' lines.   
  
The communication screen on the command console beeps. Megatron looks down at it with nothing short of satisfaction.   
  
“Right on schedule,” he murmurs as he accepts the call. “You have the codes?” he asks without further preamble.   
  
And Longarm Prime appears on the screen. Optimus' optics cycle wider.   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron. I only await your orders to execute them,” the head of Autobot Intelligence replies.   
  
“Excellent. Once the shield falls, feel free to join us in your true form,” Megatron all but purrs. “You have served me well, my faithful spy.”   
  
Longarm dips his helm in a bow and the screen goes blank.   
  
Megatron squeezes Optimus' shoulder one more time before letting his hand slide away. “You joined the winning team, Optimus,” he says as he folds his arms behind his back and turns his attention to the bridge at large.   
  
“I have no speech, my Decepticons. I will save it instead for our victory.” Megatron's field blasts with pride, amping up the eager tension in the room. “Prepare for our assault on Cybertron. The time is now.”   
  
“Decepticons,” Megatron's voice booms and Optimus realizes that means him as well now. The Autobrand on his shoulders start to itch. “Rise up!”   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One, maybe two more chapters to go before what I'm calling part one/arc one is complete and then we move into arc two/part two where maybe we might finally see some MegaOp action. I'm still going back and revising these chapters from the start and I'll post them all when I finish. This one will be revised, too, because it reads very awkward to me and I want to fix that.
> 
> Teensy continuity note, I envision that this went AU halfway through the final episode of S2. So Optimus never got the reveal that Longarm was a spy. I do need to go back and address where Blurr is. That is something I will be fixing in my rewrites along with some other characters I've forgotten to address.


	19. Dedication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus receives his new brand and title from Megatron personally.

Megatron makes no effort to hide that he is watching the Prime. Or should he do away with that title and replace it with something else now that Optimus has taken the oath?  
  
Megatron's lips curl into a smirk. He is under no illusions. Optimus is no more a Decepticon than Megatron is an Autobot. But it will be amusing to watch him play the game and attempt to deceive. Optimus may think he has scored a point, but by the time he realizes it is too late, he will give truth to his oath.   
  
He will be a Decepticon. Megatron is quite sure of this.   
  
Try as he might, Optimus cannot hide the dismay in his optics. Megatron sees him counting the warships at the Decepticon's disposal. He notices the moment Optimus recognizes Shockwave and understands that the Autobot defeat is inevitable. The Prime's plating ripples. His field flares, only to draw back just as quickly, tinted with shame.   
  
Perhaps he hopes that Megatron hasn't noticed. So Megatron will play along. He'll pretend for Optimus' pride. He must nurture it, if he is truly to convince Optimus to his side.   
  
Optimus is Decepticon to the core of his spark, he just doesn't know it.   
  
Megatron rests a hand on Optimus' right shoulder to capture his attention, but he directs his statement to Blitzwing.   
  
“Let me know the moment our fleet is within position and the shield falls. I suspect that the Elite Guard will contact us before we begin our assault,” Megatron says as he turns away from the massive screen and Optimus turns with him. “Our newest recruit needs his badge if he is to fight at our side, yes?”   
  
Optimus looks up at him, his blue optics bleak but determined. “Yes, Lord Megatron,” he says, his tone a touch meek, but that will change.   
  
Megatron grins and leads Optimus off the bridge. While it is traditional for new recruits to receive their badge in a public ceremony, Megatron doesn't want to alienate Optimus completely. He's well-aware of the Autobot tendency toward privacy. Besides, it gives him the opportunity to personalize the experience.   
  
Beyond the bridge, Megatron directs Optimus to a nearby conference room and closes the door behind him. This gives them solitude, not that it puts Optimus more at ease. His plating has drawn tight to his frame. His energy field is so restrained as to be non-existent. He watches Megatron warily, though his optics continue to drift toward the floor, perhaps thinking that subservience is what a proper Decepticon would offer.   
  
Charming.   
  
“You can relax, Optimus,” Megaton says with a little chuckle. “I don't intend to eat you.”   
  
Optimus startles and then draws himself up straight. “Sometimes, I am not so sure,” he retorts, with more spirit then Megatron would have given him credit.   
  
Megatron laughs outright and levels a gaze at the smaller former Autobot. “Is that a request?” he asks, adding a purr to his vocals. “Have you thought about me doing so?” He steps toward Optimus and notices that Optimus takes a step back, nearly trapping himself between the table and Megatron. “Should I make such an offer? Perhaps on that very table behind you even.”   
  
Pale faceplates flush with heat. Optimus' intake bobs. “You're mocking me,” he says, vocals that attempt to be stern but don't quite make the race.   
  
“It was merely a question.” Megatron grins and gestures toward the table. “Sit or stand, the choice is yours.”   
  
Optimus' optics cycle wide and Megatron is quite sure they've gone in the wrong direction. “Um.”  
  
Megatron pulls a cloth and paint stripper from his thigh compartment. “So that I can remove that hideous face from your shoulder, Optimus. What else did you think I meant?”   
  
The field that flickers out is flush with both embarrassment and perhaps even a tint of disappointment. Intriguing.   
  
Optimus audibly reboots his vocalizer. “I'll stand,” he says, and crosses his arms. His shoulders hunch. He's defensive.   
  
He really ought not be so charming.   
  
“If you insist.” Megatron takes a step toward Optimus and there's a dull clang as Optimus' aft hits the table.   
  
Megatron pauses and quirks an orbital ridge. “Are you afraid of me, Optimus?”   
  
“No.” Optimus stares at him, his every armor plate screaming otherwise before he holds out a hand. “I'll do it myself.”   
  
“I'm afraid tradition dictates otherwise.” Megatron interjects apology into his tone, not that he feels it. It is hardly a burden to be in proximity to Optimus no-longer-a-Prime.   
  
Optimus' engine rumbles. The heat in his faceplate grows. “Fine.” He tilts his shoulder toward Megatron, offering the Autobot face.  
  
It is with only a small amount of evident glee that Megatron tilts paint stripper onto the rag and dabs at the Autobot badge. Optimus flinches, but Megatron doesn't know if it's more from his proximity or because Optimus still feels strongly about his allegiance to the Autobots. It is pointless to ask as Optimus has committed himself to this ruse. Not that he believes Optimus would answer.   
  
“Why?” Optimus asks.   
  
“Because it would be inappropriate for the Decepticon Second in Command to bear an Autobot badge, don't you think?” Megatron replies as four quick sweeps of the cloth wipes away the worst of the paint. Another spill of thinner onto the cloth and he removes the rest, leaving a bright silver sheen surrounded by crimson.   
  
“That's not what I meant.” Optimus' helm turns, his gaze finding Megatron's with a previously unseen confidence. “Why is the Decepticon Lord supposed to do this?”   
  
Megatron wipes off a few dribbles of thinner and sets both dirty cloth and bottle on the table. He brushes a thumb over the bare metal and notices Optimus shiver beneath him.   
  
“And I should allow some footsoldier to tend to this when you are my second?” Megatron arches an orbital ridge, letting the weight of his hand rest on Optimus' shoulder. “It is a matter of respect, Optimus,” he says, and tilts his helm, his thumb sweeping over a portion of red armor. “Have you considered a repaint?”  
  
Armor shuffles. Optimus audibly ex-vents. “I'm not changing my paint.”   
  
“Are you sure? Gray and purple would suit you better, I think.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrow. “I'm sure.”   
  
“Suit yourself.”   
  
Paint and paintbrush are the next to appear, this time from a side panel. Megatron fumbles for a moment with the small canister, much to Optimus' amusement, but manages to pop off the lid. It has been some time since he's drawn one of these freehand, but Megatron believes he hasn't lost his touch.   
  
Optimus cycles his optics, his orbital ridges drawing down.   
  
“You look confused,” Megatron says with a curl of his lips. No wonder Optimus had been relying on his battle mask. He is quite expressive.   
  
“It's not a brand?” Optimus asks.   
  
Megatron shakes his helm as he examines the brush. “I'm giving you an opportunity to change your mind about the repaint. Besides, I haven't time for you to be in recovery right now. Proper brands are more than a little scoring. They are nanite-reprogramming. Now hold still.”   
  
Optimus' ventilations hitch. His hands dangle at his sides as Megatron leans closer to him, eying the bare patch of silver. This will look rough, but Megatron refuses to go into battle without claiming Optimus.   
  
He is eager to see the look on the Magnus' face when he realizes the value of what he's thrown away.   
  
“Who am I replacing?”   
  
Megatron dips the brush into the paint and applies the first stroke. “You'll have to clarify your question.”   
  
“Is it Starscream?”   
  
Two more sweeps of the brush and Megatron is halfway done. Optimus must have locked his joints because he doesn't so much as twitch.   
  
“By half,” Megatron answers. “You are my second, but you are not my Air Commander. That honor has been bestowed upon Slipstream.”   
  
“Starscream's clone? But… why?”   
  
“Because she is capable and the others are not.” Megatron straightens and admires his work.   
  
It's not the best, but at least it's not crooked. As he thought, the purple clashes horribly with Optimus' current paint job. But he is still better suited for the Decepticon symbol.   
  
Megatron lifts a finger and gestures for Optimus to turn. “Both sides,” he says. “I wouldn't want anyone to mistake you for an Autobot.”   
  
“No, I wouldn't want that either.” Optimus' gaze falls to his painted shoulder, his expression unreadable as he angles his arm so that he can see the glistening paint. He turns and offers his other shoulder to Megatron.   
  
There is a minute tremor in his frame this time as Megatron quickly applies the second brand. Optimus' field is more tangible now, a rising and falling pulse within the room that displays a rapid flurry of emotion. Does he regret his choice?   
  
Such an intriguing little mech.  
  
Megatron applies the last swipe of the brush and steps back to admire his work. His lips curve into a smile of approval. The colors clash, but he had been right. Optimus looks much better in Decepticon purple. And when he looks up at Megatron with a determined glint in his blue optics, a trickle of heat dares dance down Megatron's backstrut.   
  
Hm. Well. Perhaps he can explore that at a later date, too.   
  
“It suits you,” Megatron says as Optimus looks at his other shoulder, hand rising to touch the fast-drying paint.   
  
“And who could have guessed you were so good with your hands,” Optimus says, almost absently, only to give Megatron a sidelong look.   
  
Megatron laughs. “There are many things about me you do not know, Optimus.”   
  
He tilts his helm. “I guess that means you trust me enough to let me find out.”   
  
Cute. He thinks he's playing a game.   
  
Amusement coils through Megatron's field. But his internal comm chirps at him in that very moment.   
  
The Elite Guard, Ultra Magnus, and the Council have made an effort to communicate. His little interlude with Optimus must come to a close.   
  
Megatron sets the paint and brush on the table. “The time for ceremony is over.” He moved to the door and keyed it open before turning back toward Optimus and holding out a hand. “Come, Commander. We have work to do.”   
  
Optimus looks up at him as though startled by the title. His faceplate pinks. His hands draw into fists before loosening again.   
  
He straightens as though suddenly in possession of a new flavor of pride.   
  
“Yes,” he says, and he joins Megatron at the door, his optics a determined shade of blue. “My lord.”   
  
It takes all Megatron has not to smirk.   
  


****


	20. Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus stands beside Megatron as the Autobots present them with an offer that Megatron is eager to decline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the LJ Anon who gave me the prompt of Megatron/Optimus, planned.

Optimus startles upon hearing the title, and the flush returns to his faceplate.  
  
 _Commander Optimus._  
  
Why has it taken being captured and manipulated by the Decepticons before someone considers him worth anything? Even if it is a game Megatron is playing, Optimus can't stop this ripple of pleasure from cascading through his spark.   
  
He'd been turned out, cast aside, and abandoned by the Autobots.   
  
He'd accepted his blame for Elita's death but still felt like he'd been punished for it for his entire life.   
  
Now here he is, second in command of the entire Decepticon armada, and while a touch of it rings hollow, another part of Optimus clings to the honor, to the respect it offers.   
  
It makes him feel… well, it makes him feel that he is a mech of worth, and maybe that has been Megatron's intention all along.   
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation, lets himself luxuriate in the feeling of belonging for the space of several cycles, and then tucks it down deep. He can't lose sight of his goals. He can't forget what he's set out to do.   
  
Megatron can slap as many Decepticon badges on Optimus' shoulders as he wants, Optimus is still an Autobot.   
  
His resolve, however, becomes a little shaky when Megatron urges him out of the room with a gentle touch to his shoulder and the Decepticons in the corridor outside dip their helms in a bow of respect. Oh, sure, there is banked anger in their crimson optics. Someone of them are unhappy with their leader's decision.   
  
But no one speaks a word.   
  
Opitmus and Megatron walk onto the bridge without incident, where the crew waits either at attention or at their consoles, on duty. Blitzwing turns to greet them, his Icy face blank of expression.   
  
“Lord Megatron,” he says as they approach the command station. “We are being hailed by the Elite Guard. Do you wish to accept?” He switches to Hot. “Or should I just blow them out of the sky?”  
  
Megatron folds his arms behind his back as Optimus remains at his side, hands fiddling before he decides to copy Megatron's stance. It is far more acceptable than defensively folding his arms over his chest and cocking his hip. Plus, it will make his Decepticon badges all the more prominent, presenting them with a pride he doesn't feel.   
  
His plating crawls, and Optimus has to hide that as well. He can't let his disgust show in his face, no matter how much he wants to claw at his arms.   
  
Stripping away the Autobot badge felt like stripping away a part of himself. He fights down a shiver.   
  
“Send them through, Blitzwing,” Megatron says with an amused curl of his lip. “Let's see what our old friend Ultra has to say.”   
  
A large screen descends, nearly blocking the view of Cybertron and Megatron's forces surrounding it. The shield continues to glisten in the background, and Optimus wonders how much longer it will hold. Or is Megatron waiting for the perfect dramatic moment?  
  
“Are you ready, Optimus?” Megatron asks without looking at him.   
  
Optimus lifts his chin, staring straight ahead at the screen as a spinning sphere counts down the seconds until the connection is established. “I am not afraid, if that's what you're asking.”   
  
Megatron laughs. “I know you aren't, Commander. But it's not everyday you get to confront the mechs who abandoned you while standing next to their greatest enemy.”   
  
Optimus' optics narrow. He tilts his helm toward Megatron, but the screen flickers, capturing his attention. And there they are, Ultra Magnus and Sentinel and Jazz and Perceptor and… Alpha Trion. Some are more expected than others.   
  
“Well,” Megatron says with an amused lilt to his vocals. “It looks like you brought everyone to inform me of your surrender. How proactive of you, Ultra.”   
  
Ultra Magnus' optics cycle down. “We are not surrendering, Megatron.” His gaze slides to Optimus and then back to Megatron. “We have nothing to fear from an army of dilapidated ships that cannot cross our shields.”   
  
“Then why contact me? Why force a charade?” Megatron counters.   
  
“To give you the opportunity to turn back before I unleash the full might of the Autobot Elite Guard upon you,” Ultra Magnus replies, one hand resting on the Magnus Hammer. “I am not so cruel as to strip you of your dignity.”   
  
Optimus frowns, despite himself. Magnus knows Megatron will never turn back. It is not the Decepticon way. Just what does he hope to accomplish?   
  
“And why the hell is Optimus Prime standing next to you?” Sentinel demands, vibrating with tension as he lurches forward, nearly knocking the Hammer from Ultra's hand. “He's supposed to be dead.”   
  
Megatron smirks and looks over at Optimus. “Yes. You really should be careful about the things you throw away, Ultra Magnus. We Decepticons have a habit of picking them up.”   
  
Optimus lifts his chin and helm, projecting a pride he does not feel.   
  
“Optimus Prime,” Ultra Magnus says, his sonorous voice commanding attention as he lifts a hand to quiet Sentinel. “Is this true?”   
  
Optimus works his intake and clenches his hands into fists. “I no longer go by that title. I am Command Optimus. You will address me as such,” he says, and the heat in his faceplate is as much shame as it is embarrassment.   
  
He has never in all his functioning been so bold.   
  
Megatron laughs, though all the mockery in it is directed at the Autobots on screen. His field is a ripe flicker of triumph and glee.   
  
“You see, Ultra,” he says with a gesture toward Optimus. “We Decepticons have always recognized the value in those you deem unworthy of it.”   
  
Optimus forces himself to remain still as Ultra Magnus' optics narrow. His fingers flex around the Magnus Hammer. Jazz has no expression on his face, but Sentinel looks like a volcano about to erupt. If he shakes any harder, he's going to shake right out of his armor.   
  
“Traitor!” Sentinel hisses, lurching forward again, only Jazz's hand on his shoulder keeping him from knocking into Ultra Magnus.   
  
What does he think he can do? Leap through the screen to attack Optimus?  
  
“I always knew you were one, Optimus,” Sentinel snarls, his faceplate flushing with fury.   
  
Optimus is glad he can not feel the force of his former friend's rage.   
  
There is no love lost between them but even so, Optimus is surprised how little it hurts to hear the insult coming from Sentinel. Perhaps because Sentinel has been less than kind to him for solar cycles.   
  
Instead, Optimus inclines his helm. “You must ask yourself, Sentinel, who betrayed whom first?” Optimus counters.   
  
Beside him, Megatron chuckles, a low show of amusement that reverberates in his chassis. He rests a hand on Optimus' shoulder, the warmth and weight of it as much a show of solidarity as their presence next to each other.   
  
“Yes,” Megatron says with another laugh. “My commander has a point. You left your most valuable assets unguarded, Ultra. How shortsighted of you.”   
  
Sentinel's engine revs but a single look from Ultra Magnus forces him to clamp his mouth shut and take a step back. Yet, there is a murderous gleam to his optics, one that focuses on Optimus alone. Megatron might as well not exist.   
  
Optimus ignores the squeezing of his spark and looks to Ultra Magnus instead. The mech who lied to him, who punished him, who pretended to assist him, and yet, disappeared when it mattered.   
  
He expects to feel betrayed. Instead, he feels blank inside. Perhaps because he is shoving his emotions deep down so as not to reveal them to Megatron.   
  
“What you call improvident, I call prudence,” Ultra Magnus replies as he inclines his helm. Blue optics are sharp and incisive. “What you have at your side is a mech who has finally shown his true colors.”   
  
It stings.   
  
Optimus flinches. He feels the tips of his audials burn. His spark rails within his frame – his Decepticon-designed frame.   
  
Megatron's grip of his shoulder tightens, almost as if offering comfort. “Or a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he growls. “You should not be so dismissive of your soldiers.”   
  
Ultra Magnus stares at Megatron before his gaze shifts to Optimus, as though ignoring Megatron. “Do you remember what I once told you, Commander Optimus?”   
  
“I do,” Optimus replies, his ventilations quickening. “But it is no longer relevant.”   
  
“No, it is not,” Ultra Magnus agrees and his gaze shifts back to Megatron. “I ask again, Megatron, will you yield and turn back your troops?”   
  
Megatron laughs and his hand slides from Optimus' shoulder. He tells himself he does not miss the weight of it.   
  
“You already know the answer to that question, Ultra. So I'll do you a favor, I'll give you the opportunity to surrender before I unleash the full might of my Decepticons on you.”   
  
“You won't even get past the shield, filthy Con!” Sentinel snarls, every inch of his plating vibrating with fury. “You're not going to win this!”   
  
Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation. “The Autobots will never bow to the likes of you, Megatron.”   
  
“So be it, Ultra.” Megatron leans forward with a grin of sharp denta. “You've brought this defeat upon yourself.”  
  
“We will see.”   
  
The screen fuzzes with static and then goes dark. Trust Ultra Magnus to have the last word. He has always been like that.   
  
A chill fills Optimus' spark. He refuses to let that show on his faceplate and waits for orders, waits for Megatron to give the order to attack.   
  
“Well,” Megatron says with a smirk as he turns to face the rest of the bridge and the waiting Decepticons. “I tried to do it their way. Now we do it mine. Are the codes ready to be uploaded?”   
  
Icy Blitzwing nods. “They only await your command, my lord.” His faces spin and Random appears with a wild cackle. “Bring on the rain!”  
  
“Indeed,” Megatron replies with a rumble of his engine. “Give the order, Blitzwing.”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron!” Icy Blitzwing pops off a salute that he had to have learned from the humans and whirls back toward his console. “Bombs away!”   
  
Optimus isn't sure what to expect. Maybe for the view to light up with blasterfire as they all race toward Cybertron in an all-out attack. He's on bolts and brackets, his spark hammering in his chassis. Self-loathing creeps in, gnawing on his spark, even more so when the beautiful opalescence of the shield ripples.   
  
Optimus startles forward. He knows that his own pseudo-defection is to blame. They need the codes of at least five Prime-level Autobots to disengage the shielding. They have his and Longarm's aka Shockwave's. But where have they acquired the other three?   
  
He fears to know.   
  
“They think they are safe behind their walls, their shield,” Megatron murmurs as he paces across the bridge, his optics locked on the viewscreen and the flickering planet-sized shield. “They think they have nothing to fear. We will prove them wrong.”   
  
Optimus' ventilations stutter. He watches, careful to hide his horror, as the shield wavers and then vanishes, leaving Cybertron completely unguarded.   
  
They could re-initialize it, he knows. But he doubts any of them suspected the shield would fall. It will take them precious minutes to re-activate. By that time, Megatron's armada will be beyond the shield's protection.   
  
“Are you ready, my commander?” Megatron asks as he looks down at Optimus, his expression unreadable.   
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation and nods. “Of course, Lord Megatron. Let them reap what they have sown.” Borrowing a human adage, he thinks. How apt.   
  
Megatron chuckles. “That is exactly what I want to hear.”  
  
He takes a step forward and lifts both arms, addressing the Decepticons on the bridge. “This is our time, my Decepticons, and the final hour for the rule of the Autobots. We return to Cybertron, our home of exile, and we take back that which has been stolen from us.”   
  
Optimus' spark shrinks. He watches as Megatron's armada, though small it might seem, sinks down toward Cybertron and Megatron's flagship follows in their wake.   
  
“Be strong. Be vigilant. Be mighty,” Megatron continues, his inspiring vocals making the atmosphere thick with zeal.   
  
“Decepticons! It is time to rise up!”   
  
'And conquer,' Optimus thinks bleakly.   
  
He can only hope to mitigate the damage.   
  
It is too late to prevent war now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: And that's the end of part one of The Art of Self-Destruction. No, I won't be showing the huge battle. I'm going to time skip a little when I start part two. There's still a lot of story left. Including the edits and revisions of part one, of which I'm about halfway done. :)
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


End file.
